Wisconsin in Story and Song 



ROUNDS-HIPPENSTEEL 




Class T^cWy/- 
Book 



imm^ 



Copyright]^" 



.COPmiGHT DEPOSIT. 



Wisconsin in Story and Song 



SELECTIONS FROM THE PROSE AND 

POETRY OF BADGER STATE 

WRITERS 



EDITED BY 



CHARLES RALPH ROUNDS 

HEAD OF THE DEPARTMENT OF ENGLISH OF THE 
MILWAUKEE STATE NORMAL SCHOOL 



HENRY SHERMAN HIPPENSTEEL 

HEAD OF THE DEPARTMENT OF ENGLISH AND DIRECTOR 

OF HIGH SCHOOL TEACHER TRAINING OF THE 

STEVENS POINT NORMAL SCHOOL 



PUBLISHERS 

THE PARKER EDUCATIONAL COMPANY 

MADISON. WISCONSIN 






COPYRIGHT, 1916 

BY ^ 

THE PARKER EDUCATIONAL CO. 
MADISON, WISCONSIN 



^ 






m -71916 



,A431411 



To the authors of today and of former days^ 
whose genius and co-operation have made this 
hooh possible^ and to the yoxing people who 
may^ iy reading these pages^ he inspired to 
carry the lanner of our state still farther 
into the reahn of literature^ 

WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG' 
is affectionately dedicated. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 

Page 
General Wisconsin Writers. 

HAMLIN GARLAND 13- 39 

Haying Time, Among the Corn Rows, Ploughing, 
Ladrone, The Toil of the Trail, The Blue Jay, 
Pom Pom Pull Away, The Old-Fashioned Thresh- 
ing in Green's Coolly. 

GENERAL CHARLES KING 40-63 

Ray's Ride for Life (from "Marion's Faith"), 
The Final Blow. 

JOHN MUIR 64- 71 

Snow Banners. 

ELLA WHEELER WILCOX 72-84 

The Two Glasses, The Kingdom of Love, The 
Tendril's Fate, Three Friends, Ambitions' Trail, 
Morning Prayer, I Am, Which Are You? 

RAY STANNARD BAKER . 85- 98 

Through the Air, Marconi and His Great Achieve- 
ments — New Experiments in Wireless Telegraphy, 
The Roping at Pasco's. 

"DAVID GRAYSON" 99-113 

An Argument with a Millionaire. 

ZONA GALE 114-127 

Why?, The Holy Place, Friendship Village. 

EBEN EUGENE REXPORD 128-144 

Watering Plants, Tea Roses for Beds, The Old 
Village Choir, The Two Singers, The Unfruitful 
Tree, A Day in June, Silver Threads Among the 
Gold, When Silver Threads Are Gold Again. 

CARL SCHURZ 145-149 

Selections from his Reminiscences, The True 
Americanism. 

HONORe WILLSIE 150-162 

The Forbidden North, A Story of a Great Dane 
Puppy. 

EDNA FERBER 163-171 

Steeped in German. 

GEORGE L. TEEPLE 172-183 

The Battle of Gray's Pasture. 

GEORGE BYRON MERRICK 184-188 

Old Times on the Upper Mississippi. 

HATTIE TYNG GRISWOLD 189-192 

John G. Whittier. 



S WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

ALBERT H. SANFORD 193-195 

The Story of Agriculture in the United States. 
CHARLES D. STEWART 196-201 

On a Moraine. 
ELLIOTT FLOWER 202-208 

The Impractical Man. 
JENKIN LLOYD JONES 209-212 

Nuggets from a Welsh Mine. 
EVERETT McNeil 213-218 

Mother's Wolf Story. 

The University Group. 

PRESIDENT CHARLES R. VAN HISE 220-224 

The Future of Man in America. 
DEAN E. A. BIRGE 224-228 

Milton. 
RASMUS B. ANDERSON 228-230 

Bjarne Herjulfson, 986. 
REUBEN GOLD THWAITES 230-234 

The Discovery of Wisconsin. 
FREDERICK J. TURNER 234-238 

The Significance of the Frontier in American 

History. 
PAUL S. REINSCH 238-241 

The New Education of China. 
GEORGE C. COMSTOCK 242-244 

Astrology in Life and Literature. 
J. F. A. PYRE 245-246 

Byron in Our Day. 
EDWARD A. ROSS 246-250 

The Conflict of Oriental and Western Cultures in 

China. 
GRANT SHOWERMAN 251-254 

A Lad's Recollections of His Boyhood Haunts 

and Experiences in the Earlier Days. 

WILLIAM E. LEONARD 254-260 

-The Glory of the Morning, Love Afar, The Image 

of Delight, A Dedication. 
THOMAS H. DICKINSON 260-263 

In Hospital. 
WILLIAM J. NEIDIG 263-265 

The Buoy-Bell. 
BRALEY — WINSLOW — JONES 265-268 

Sometimes, The Pioneers, A Little Book of Local 

Verse. 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 9^ 

JOSEPH P. WEBSTER 269 

Sweet Bye and Bye. 



Writers of Local Distinction. 

SHERIFF, BOND, THOMSON, WHITNEY, BAER, 
HENDERSON, ADAMS, PLANTZ, CARLTON, 
MOORE, LATHROP, MANVILLE, BLAISDELL, 
NAGLE, CHASE, DAVIDSON, BROWN, 

WHEELER 270-285 

Other Wisconsin Writers and Their Works. 



NAMES ONLY WITHOUT SELECTIONS 2 86 



Wisconsin Humorists. 

LUTE A. TAYLOR 288-290 

"BILL" NYE 291-294 

GEORGE W. PECK 294-297 

WILLIAM F. KIRK 297-298- 



PREFACE. 

In preparing/ this book the editors have had two main pur- 
poses in view. Their first purpose has been to furnish some 
definite knowledge concerning literary productions of Wiscon- 
sin people. They have been surprised, and they feel that their 
readers will be surprised, to find how many authors of national 
repute have been intimately associated with Wisconsin life; 
and further, to find that many writers who have not as yet 
gained fame outside the state have written things that are 
beyond doubt highly creditable. 

The second purpose has been to kindle the surprise just 
mentioned into wholesome effort, particularly among our 
young people, to appreciate what literature is and how it is 
produced, and to encourage these readers to study the life 
round about them with a view to expressing their observations 
in literary language. In other words, they hope that this book 
may stimulate Wisconsin authors to still greater literary 
activity. 

The difficulties in the preparation of such a compilation as 
this may be readily imagined. First, there is the problem of 
selection or rejection on account of geographical eligibility. 
The editors have not drawn the line at nativity or at present 
residence, but have rather defined it thus: Anyone who, in his 
mature life, has become identified with Wisconsin, both through 
residence and through literary, educational, or other activity, 
is geographically eligible. 

Literary eligibility is still more difficult to determine. In 
general, the editors have been guided in their decisions by the 
judgment of the reading public, which is, after all, in many 
ways one of the best critics. There is, however, the problem 
ofl early writers who had considerable vogue in their day; and 
likewise that of young authors whose works are just now be- 
ginning to appear. They can scarcely hope to have done exact 
justice in either one of these two fields. New writers of promise 
are arising. Perhaps some that have held the center of the 
stage will soon have to give place. Literary estimates are in- 



12 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

herently a changing quantity. Absolutely just criticism of 
today will be warped judgment tomorrow. 

Further, it is possible that there may be serious oversight 
in this collection. For any such error the editors wish before- 
hand to make due apology. It has not been their intention to 
discriminate against any person or group or section. They will 
be placed under obligation by any persons who will, upon read- 
ing the selections here noted, write them with respect to other 
authors whose works, they feel, should have been represented. 

Wliile this book, it is hoped, will have a general interest 
for all Wisconsin readers, it is believed that it may prove of 
particular use as supplementary reading in the seventh and 
eighth grades and the early years of the high school. To the 
end that the selections may prove available for this use, brief 
biographical and critical explanations have been given with 
nearly every selection. 

The editors acknowledge with gratitude the ready co- 
operation of both authors and publishers in permitting the use 
of copyrighted material, specific credit being given in each case 
in the proper connection. Particular mention should also be 
made of the "Bibliography of Wisconsin Authors," prepared in 
1893 for the Wisconsin Historical Society by Emma A. Hawley, 
under direction of Reuben Gold Thwaites; and of "The Socalled 
School of Wisconsin Authors," Miss Zona Gale's thesis, under 
the same date. 

C. R. R. 
H. S. H. 



GENERAL WRITERS. 
HAMLIN GARLAND. 

Hamlin Garland was born in the beautiful La Crosse valley, 
September 16, 1860, and lived there until he was eight years 
old. Twenty-three years ago he purchased the old homestead 
near West Salem, La Crosse County, and to this he delights to 
return each year for part of his summer. As one reads his 
description of the trip to West Salem over the Northwestern 
Line in his story, "Up the Cooley," he is compelled to see how 
much Mr. Garland loves the scenes of Wisconsin. 

Among the other states which may share in the right to 
claim Hamlin Garland are Iowa, Massachusetts, Illinois, and 
South Dakota. In Iowa he learned what the rural school, the 
academy, and the farm could teach him. It was in the Bos- 
ton Public Library that he formed much of his literary style 
and determined that the material for his future literary work 
should be the western life that he knew so well. In Illinois 
he began his work as a teacher and a lecturer. Here he met 
the girl who was to become his wife. Miss Zulima Taft, sister 
of the artist, Lorado Taft. Chicago is his present home. Mr. 
Garland visited his parents in South Dakota in 1883 and took 
up a claim there. Here he got material which he incorporated 
into some of his stories, among which the Moccassin Ranch is 
the most notable. 

The experience in these several states gave Hamlin Garland 
an excellent opportunity to understand all phases of country 
life. He has expressed his observations in description of boys' 
games, the labor on the farm, the work of the rural school, and 
the varied activities of the rural community. He knew that 
the work of the farm in an early day furnished as much oppor- 
tunity for the display of resistance and the determination to 
use the last bit of strength to win as does the game of the 
present. The work of binding the wheat after a reaper became 
a game requiring honesty as well as skill and rapidity. Per- 
haps no boy of today shoots a basket, makes a touch-down, or 
hits out a home run with more pride than did the youth of this 
pioneer life retire from the harvest field at noon or night with 
the consciousness that he had bound all his "tricks" without 
being caught once by the machine as it made its successive 
rounds of the field. 

Hamlin Garland knew the joys of these contests on the 
pioneer farm, and he also knew the sordid side of the narrow 
and cramped life of the early settler. He describes both with 
equal vividness and sympathy. Wisconsin owes him much for 
the work he has done in preserving pictures of her early pio- 
neer life. His hero and heroine are those ancestors who trav- 



14 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

elled forth into the new regions in covered wagons, and by the 
use of axe and plow conquered a seemingly unconquerable for- 
est or a stubborn prairie sod. In his book of short stories, 
"Main Travelled Roads," he makes the dedication of it to his 
heroic parents in these words: 

"To my father and mother, whose half-century pilgrimage 
on the main travelled road of life has brought them only toil 
and deprivation, this book of stories is dedicated by a son to 
whom every day brings a deepening sense of his parents' silent 
heroism." 

To illustrate Mr. Garland's ability to picture the joyous and 
the irksome in the life of the pioneer two selections are given 
at this place. The first sets forth the joy of farm activity, the 
second, the disheartening influence of abject toil. 



HAYING TIME 

From "BOY LIFE ON THE PRAIRIE." Published by permission 
of Harper Bros. 

Haying was the one season of farm work -^Mch the 
boys thoroughly enjoyed. It usually began on the 
tame meadows about the twenty-fifth of June, and lasted 
a week or so. It had always appealed to Lincoln,* in a 
distinctly beautiful and poetic sense, which was not true 
of the main business of farming. Most of the duties 
through which he passed needed the lapse of years to 
seem beautiful in his eyes, but haying had a charm and 
significance quite out of the common. 

At this time the summer was at its most exuberant 
stage of vitality, and it was not strange that even the 
faculties of toiling old men, dulled and deadened with 
never ending drudgery, caught something of exultation 
from the superabundant glow and throb of Nature's life. 

The corn fields, dark green and sweet-smelling, rippled 
like a sea with a multitudinous stir and sheen and swirl. 
Waves of dusk and green and yellow circled across the 
level fields, Avhile long leaves upthrust at intervals like 
spears or shook like guidons. The trees were in heavy 
leaf, insect life was at its height, and the air was filled 



"The name of a boy in the story. 




HAMLIN GARLAND 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 17 

\ with buzzing, dancing forms and with the sheen of in- 
numerable gauzy wings. 

The air was shaken by most ecstatic voices. The 
bobolinks sailed and sang in the sensuous air, now sink- 
ing, now rising, their exquisite notes ringing, filling the 
air like the chimes of tiny silver bells. The kingbird, 
ever alert and aggressive, cried out sharply as he launch- 
ed from the top of a poplar tree upon some buzzing in- 
sect, and the plover made the prairie sad with his wailing 
call. Vast purple-and-white clouds moved like bellying 
sails before the lazy wind, dark with rain, which they 
dropped momentarily like trailing garments upon the 
earth, and so passed on in stately measure with a roll of 
thunder. 

The grasshoppers moved in clouds with snap and 
buzz, and out of the luxurious stagnant marshes came 
the ever thickening chorus of the toads and the frogs, 
while above them the kildees and the snipe shuttled to and 
fro in sounding flight, and the blackbirds on the cattails 
and willows swayed with lifted throats, uttering their 
subtle liquid notes, made mad with delight of the sun 
and their own music. And over all and through all moved 
the slow, soft west wind, laden with the breath of the 
far-off prairie lands of the west, soothing and hushing 
and filling the world with a slumbrous haze. 

The weather in haying time was glorious, with only 
occasional showers to accentuate the splendid sunlight. 
There were no old men and no women in these fields. The 
men were young and vigorous, and their action was swift 
and supple. Sometimes it was hot to the danger point, 
especially on the windless side of the stack (no one had 
haybarns in those days) and sometimes the pitcher com- 
plained of cold chills running up his back. Sometimes 
Jack flung a pail full of water over his head and shoulders 



18 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

before beginning to unload, and seemed the better for it. 
Mr. Stewart kept plenty of ''switcher' (which is com- 
posed of ginger and water) for his hands to drink. He 
had a notion that it was less injurious than water or beer, 
and no sun strokes occurred among his men. 

Once, one hot afternoon, the air took on an oppressive 
density, the wind died away almost to a calm, blowing 
fitfully from the south, while in the far west a vast dome 
of inky clouds, silent and portentous, uplifted, filling the 
horizon, swelling like a great bubble, yet seeming to have 
the weight of a mountain range in its mass. The birds, 
bees, and all insects, hitherto vocal, suddenly sank into 
silence, as if awed by the first deep mutter of the storm. 
The mercury is touching one hundred degrees in the 
shade. 

All hands hasten to get the hay in order, that it may 
shed rain. They hurry without haste, as only adept 
workmen can. They roll up the windrows by getting 
fork and shoulder under one end, tumbling it over and 
over endwise, till it is large enough ; then go back for the 
scatterings, which are placed, with a deft turn of the 
fork, on the top to cap the pile. The boys laugh and 
shout as they race across the field. Every man is wet 
to the skin with sweat; hats are flung- aside; Lincoln, 
on the rake, puts his horse to the trot. The feeling of the 
struggle, of racing with the thunder, exalts him. 

Nearer and nearer comes the storm, silent no longer. 
The clouds are breaking up. The boys stop to listen. 
Far away is heard the low, steady, crescendo, grim roar ; 
intermixed with crashing thunderbolts, the rain streams 
aslant, but there is not yet a breath of air from the west ; 
the storm wind is still far away ; the toads in the marsh, 
and the fearless king-bird, alone cry out in the ominous 
gloom cast by the rolling clouds of the tempest. 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 19 

"Look out! here it comes!" calls the boss. The black 
cloud melts to form the gray veil of the falling rain, 
which blots out the plain as it sweeps on. Now it strikes 
the corn-field, sending a tidal wave rushing across it. Now 
it reaches the wind-break, and the spire-like poplars bow 
humbly to it. Now it touches the hay-field, and the caps 
of the cocks go flying ; the long grass streams in the wind 
like a woman's hair. In an instant the day's work is 
undone and the hay is opened to the drenching rain. 

As all hands rush for the house, the roaring tempest 
rides upon them like a regiment of demon cavalry. The 
lightning breaks forth from the blinding gray clouds 
of rain. As Lincoln looks up he sees the streams of fire 
go rushing across the sky like the branching of great 
red trees. A moment more, and the solid sheets of water 
fall upon the landscape, shutting it from view, and the 
thunder crashes out, sharp and splitting, in the near dis- 
tance, to go deepening and bellowing off down the il- 
limitable spaces of the sky and plain, enlarging, as it goes, 
like the rumor of war. 

In the east is still to be seen a faint crescent of the 
sunny sky, rapidly being closed in as the rain sweeps 
eastward; but as that diminishes to a gleam, a similar 
window, faint, watery, and gray, appears in the west, as 
the clouds break away. It widens, grows yellow, and 
then red ; and at ' last blazes out into an inexpressible 
glory of purple and crimson and gold, as the storm moves 
swiftly over. The thunder grows deeper, dies to a retreat- 
ing mutter, and is lost. The clouds ' dark presence passes 
away. The trees flame with light, the robins take up their 
songs again, the air is deliciously cool. The corn stands 
bent, as if still acknowledging the majesty of the wind. 
Everything is new-washed, clean of dust, and a faint, 
moist odor of green things fills the air. 



20 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

Lincoln seizes the opportunity to take Owen's place in 
bringing the cattle, and mounting his horse gallops away. 
The road is wet and muddy, but the prairie is firm, and 
the pony is full of power. In full flower, fragrant with 
green grass and radiant with wild roses, sweet-williams, 
lilies, pinks, and pea-vines, the sward lies new washed 
by the rain, while over it runs a strong, cool wind from 
the west. The boy's heart swells with unutterable joy 
of life. The world is exaltingly beautiful. It is good to 
be alone, good to be a boy, and to be mounted on a swift 
horse. 

AMONG THE CORN ROWS 

From "MAIN TRAVBLLED ROADS." Printed by permission of 
Harper Bros. 

A corn-field in July is a sultry place. The soil is hot 
and dry; the wind comes across the lazily murmuring 
leaves laden with a warm, sickening smell drawn from the 
rapidly growing, broad-flung banners of the corn. The 
sun, nearly vertical, drops a flood of dazzling light upon 
the field over which the cool shadows run, only to make 
the heat seem the more intense. 

Julia Peterson, faint with hunger, was toiling back 
and forth between the corn-rows, holding the handles of 
the double-shovel corn plow, while her little brother Otto 
rode the steaming horse. Her heart was full of bitterness, 
her face flushed with heat, and her muscles aching with 
fatigue. The heat grew terrible. The corn came to her 
shoulders, and not a breath seemed to reach her, while 
the sun, nearing the noon mark, lay pitilessly upon her 
shoulders, protected only by a calico dress. The dust rose 
under her feet, and as she was wet with perspiration it 
soiled her till with a woman's instinctive cleanliness, she 
shuddered. Her head throbbed dangerously. What mat- 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 21 

ter to her that the king bird flitted jovially from the maple 
to catch a wandering blue bottle fly, that the robin was 
feeding her young, that the bobolink was singing. All 
these things, if she saw them, only threw her bondage 
to labor into greater relief. 

Across the field, in another patch of corn, she could 
see her father — a big, gruff-voiced, wide-bearded Nor- 
wegian — at work also with a plow. The corn must be 
plowed, and so she toiled on, the tears dropping from the 
shadow of the ugly sun-bonnet she wore. Her shoes, 
coarse and square-toed, chafed her feet ; her hands, large 
and strong, were browned, or, more properly, burnt, on 
the backs by the sun. The horse's harness ''creak- 
cracked" as he swung steadily and patiently forward, 
the moisture pouring from his hide, his nostrils distended. 

The field bordered on a road, and on the other side 

of the road ran a river — a broad, clear, shallow expanse 

at that point — and the eyes of the girl gazed longingly at 

the pond and the cool shadow each time that she turned 

at the fence. 

This same contrast is expressed by Hamlin Garland, in two 
poems presented here. The first, "Ploughing," sets forth the 
irksome toil to which the undeveloped boy was subjected. The 
second, "Ladrone," portrays the joy which the youth in the 
country acquires from association with the animals of the farm. 
These poems and all the following selections are taken from 
"Boy Life on the Prairie," and are here published by permis- 
sion of the Macmillan Company. 

PLOWING 

A lonely task it is to plough! 

All day the black and clinging soil 

Rolls like a ribbon from the mould-board's 

Glistening curve. All day the horses toil 

Battling with the flies — and strain 

Their creaking collars. All day 

The crickets jeer from wind-blown shocks of grain. 



22 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

October brings the frosty dawn, 

The still, warm noon, the cold, clear night, 

When torpid insects make no sound, 

And wild-fowl in their southward flight 

Go by in hosts — and still the boy 

And tired team gnaw round by round. 

At weather-beaten stubble, band by band, 

Until at last, to their great joy. 

The winter's snow seals up the unploughed land. 



liADRONE 

And, "What of Ladrone" — do you ask? 

Oh! friend, I am sad at the name. 

My splendid fleet roan! — The task 

You require is a hard one at best. 

Swift as the spectral coyote, as tame 

To my voice as a sweetheart, an eye 

Like a pool in the woodland asleep, 

Brown, clear, and calm, with color down deep, 

Where his brave, proud soul seemed to lie — 

Ladrone! There's a spell in the word. 

The city walls fade on my eye — the roar 

Of its traffle grows dim 

As the sound of the wind in a dream. 

My spirit takes wing like a bird. 

Once more I'm asleep on the plain. 

The summer wind, sings in my hair ; 

Once again I hear the wild crane 

Crying out of the steaming air; 

White clouds are adrift on the breeze. 

The flowers nod under my feet. 

And under my thighs, 'twixt my knees. 

Again as of old I can feel 

The roll of Ladrone's firm muscles, the reel 

Of his chest — see the thrust of fore-limb 

And hear the dull trample of heel. 

We thunder behind the mad herd. 
My singing whip swirls like a snake. 
Hurrah! We swoop on like a bird. 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

With my pony's proud record at stake — 
For tlie shaggy, swift leader has stride 
Like the last of a long kingly line; 
Her eyes flash fire through her hair; 
She tosses her head in disdain; 
Her mane streams wide on the air — 
She leads the swift herd of the plain 
As a wolf-leader leads his gaunt pack, 
On the slot of the desperate deer— 
Their exultant eyes savagely shine. 

But down on her broad shining back 
Stings my lash like a rill of red flame — 
Huzzah, my wild beauty! Your best; 
Will you teach my Ladrohe a new pace? 
Will you break his proud heart in a shame 
By spurning the dust in his face? 
The herd falls behind and is lost. 
As we race neck and neck, stride and stride. 
Again the long lash hisses hot 
Along the gray mare's glassy hide — 
Aha, she is lost! she does not respond. 
Now I lean. to the ear of my roan 
And shout — letting fall the light rein. 
Like a hound from the leash, my Ladrone " 
Swoops ahead. 
We're alone on the plain! 

Ah! how the thought at wild living comes back! 

Alone on the wide, solemn prairie 

I ride with my rifle in hand. 

My eyes on the watch for the wary 

And beautiful antelope band. 

Or sleeping at night in the grasses, I hear 

Ladrone grazing near in the gloom. 

His listening head on the sky 

I see etched complete to the ear. 

From the river below comes the boom 

Of the bittern, the thrill and the cry 

Of frogs in the pool, and the shrill cricket's chime. 

Making ceaseless and marvelous rhyme. 



24 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

But what of his fate? Did lie die 
When the terrible tempest was done? 
When he staggered with you to the light, 
And your fight with the Norther was won, 
Did he live a guest evermore? 
No, friend, not so. I sold him — outright. 

What! sold your preserver, your mate, he who 
Through wind and wild snow and deep night 
Brought you safe to a shelter at last? 
Did you, when the danger had end, 
. Forget your dumb hero — your friend? 
Forget! no, nor can I. Why, man. 
It's little you know of such love 
As I felt for him! You think that you feel 
The same deep regard for your span. 
Blanketed, shining, and clipped to the heel. 
But my horse was companion and guard — 
My playmate, my ship on the sea 
Of dun grasses — in all kinds of weather. 
Unhorsed and hungry and sometimes, he 
Served me for love and needed no tether. 

No, I do not forget; but who 

Is the master of fortune and fate? 

Who does as he wishes and not as he must? 

When^ sold my preserver, my mate. 

My faithfulest friend — man, I wept. 

Yes, I own it. His faithful eyes 

Seemed to ask what it meant. 

And he kept them fixed on me in startled surprise, 

As another hand led him away. 

And the last that I heard of my roan. 

Was the sound of his shrill, pleading neigh! 

Oh magic west wind of the mountain. 
Oh steed with the stinging main, 
In sleep I draw rein at the fountain, 
And wake with a shiver of pain; 
For the heart and the heat of the city 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 25 

Are walls and prison's chain. 

Lost my Ladrone— gone the wild living — 

I dream, but my dreaming is vain. 

Hamlin Garland's parents were of Scotch Presbyterian 
descent and were strict in their management of their children, 
but their lives were most wholesome and they were withal 
companionable. Their sacrifice and toil have been rewarded 
by the response their son has made to the opportunities they 
could offer him. 

Besides the rural school training at Burr Oak, Iowa, Mr. 
Garland received additional education at Cedar Valley Semin- 
ary at Osage, where he attended school during the winter sea- 
sons. He graduated from this school in 1881 and then for a 
year travelled through the eastern states. His people later 
settled in Brown county, Dakota, and he visited them there in 
1883. 

In 1884 he went to Boston, where he came under the in- 
fluence of Professor Moses True Brown of the Boston School of 
Oratory, Oliver Wendell Holmes, William Dean Howells, Ed- 
ward Everett Hale, and Edwin Booth. 

Mr. Garland began his career as an author with the publi- 
cation of his poem, "Lost in a Norther," in Harper's Weekly. 
For this poem he received twenty-five dollars. His work has 
been unusually remunerative. He has been a popular con- 
tributor to the Century Magazine, the Youth's Companion, the 
Arena, and other magazines. His first book was published in 
1890. Mr. Garland enjoys social life and outdoor sports very 
much. He was the founder and is still the president of the 
Cliff Dwellers' Club in Chicago. He is especially fond of the 
outdoor sports of swimming, skating, and riding the trail on 
the plains and the mountains. The joy in this last is expressed 
in a poem which is given later. 

Mr. Garland's publications include short stories, novels, 
essays, and poems. These book publications began with the 
short stories, Main Travelled Roads, in 1890. Since then have 
appeared Jason Edwards, 1891; A Member of the Third House, 
an exposure of political corruption, 1892; A Spoil of Office, 
1892; Prairie Folks, Prairie Songs and Crumbling Idols, a 
series of critical essays, 1893; Rose of Dutcher's Coolly, a nov- 
el, 1895; Wayside Courtships, 1897; a Biography of Ulysses S. 
Grant, 1898; the Trail of the Gold Seekers and Boy Life on the 
Prairie, 1899; the Eagle's Heart, 1900; Her Mountain Lover, a 
novel, 1901; The Captain of the Gray Horse Troop, another 
novel, 1902; Hesper, 1903; The Tyranny of the Dark, a study 
in psychic research, 1905; The Long Trail, 1907; the Shadow 
World, another study in the psychic field, 1908; The Moccassin 
Ranch, 1909; Cavanagh, Forest Ranger, a study in forest pres- 
ervation., 1911; Victor Olnee's Discipline, 1911; The Forest 
Daughter, 1913; and They of the High Trails, 1916. 



26 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

THE TOEL OF THE TRAIL 

What have I gained by the toil of the trail? 
I know and know well. 

I have found once again the lore I had lost 
In the loud cities' hell. 

I have broadened my hand to the cinch and the axe, 

I have laid my flesh to the rain; 

I was hunter and trailer and guide; 

I have touched the most primitive wildness again. 

I have threaded the wild with the stealth of the deer, 

No eagle is freer than I; 

No mountain can thwart me, no torrent appall. 

I defy the stern sky. 

So long as I live these joys will remain, 

I have touched the most primitive wildness again. 

THE BI/TJE JAY 

His eyes are bright as burnished steel, 
His note a quick, defiant cry; 
Harsh as a hinge his grating squeal 
Sounds from the keen wind sweeping by.- 
Rains never dim his smooth blue coat, 
The cold winds never trouble him, 
No fog puts hoarseness in his throat, 
Or makes his merry eyes grow dim. 

His call at dawning is a shout. 
His wing is subject to his heart; 
Of fear he knows not — doubt 
Did not draw his sailing-chart. 

He is an universal emigre, 

His foot is set in every land; 

He greets me by gray Casco Bay 

And laughs across the Texas sand. 

In heat or cold, in storm and sun, 

He lives undauntedly; and when he dies. 

He folds his feet up one by one 

And turns his last look on the skies. 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 27 

He is the true American. He fears 

No journey and no wood or wall — 

And in the desert, toiling voyagers 

Take heart or courage from his jocund call. 

POM-POM PULL-AWAY. 

Out on the snow the boys are springing. 
Shouting blithely at their play; 
Through the night their voices ringing, 
Sound the cry "Pom, pull-away!" 
Up the sky the round moon stealing. 
Trails a robe of shimmering white: 
While the Great Bear slowly wheeling 
Marks the pole-star's steady light. 

The air with frost is keen and stinging. 
Spite of cap and muffler gay; 
Big boys whistle, girls are singing — 
Loud rings out, "Pom, pull-away!" 
Oh, the phrase has magic in it. 
Sounding through the moon-lit air! 
And in 'bout a half-a-minute 
I am part and parcel there. 

'Cross the pond I once more scurry 
Through the thickest of the fray, 
Sleeve ripped off by Andy Murray — 
"Let her rip — Pom, pull-away!" 
Mother'll mend it in the morning 
(Dear old patient, smiling face!) 
One more darn my sleeve adorning — 
"Whoop her up!" — is no disgrace. 

Moonbeams on the snow a-splinter, 
Air that stirred the blood like wine — 
What cared we for cold of winter? 
What for maiden's soft eyes' shine? 
Give us but a score of skaters 
And the cry, "Pom, pull-away!" 
We were always girl beraters — 
Forgot them wholly, sooth to say! 



28 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

. O voices through the night air ringing! 
O, thoughtless, happy, boist'rous play! 

silver clouds the keen wind winging; 
At the cry, "Pom, pull-away!" 

1 pause and dream with keenest longing 
For the starlit magic night, 

For my noisy playmates thronging, 
And the slow moon's trailing light. 



THE OLD FASHIONED THRESHING IN GREEN'S COOIiLY» 
WISCONSIN 

Prom "EOT LIFE ON THE PRAIRIE." Published by permission 
of Harper Bros. 

Life on a Wisconsin farm, even for the older lads, 
had its compensations. There were times when the daily 
routine of lonely and monotonous life gave place to an 
agreeable bustle for a few days, and human intercourse 
lightened toil. In the midst of the dull, slow progress of 
the fall's ploughing, the gathering of the threshing crew 
was a most dramatic event. 

There had been great changes in the methods of thresh- 
ing since Mr. Stewart had begun to farm, but it had not 
yet reached the point where steam displaced the horse- 
power ; and the grain, after being stacked round the barn 
ready to be threshed, was allowed to remain until late in 
the fall before calling in a machine. 

Of course, some farmers got at it earlier, for all could 
not thresh at the same time, and a good part of the fall's 
labor consisted in ''changing works" with the neighbors, 
thus laying up a stock of unpaid labor ready for the home 
job. Day after day, therefore, Mr. Stewart and the hired 
man shouldered their forks in the crisp and early dawn 
and went to help their neighbors, while the boys ploughed 
the stubble-land. 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 29 

All through the months of October and November, 
the ceaseless ringing hum and the bow-ouw, ouw-woo 
booee-oom of the great balance wheel of the threshing- 
machine, and the deep bass hum of the whirling cylinder, 
as its motion rose and fell, could be heard on every side 
like the singing of some sullen and gigantic autumnal 
insect. 

For weeks Lincoln had looked forward to the com- 
ing of the threshers with the greatest eagerness, and dur- 
ing the whole of the day appointed, Owen and he hung 
on the gate and gazed down the road to see if the machine 
were coming. It did not come during the afternoon — 
still they could not give it up, and at the falling of dusk 
still hoped to hear the rattle of its machinery. 

It was not uncommon for the men who attended to 
these machines to work all day at one place and move to 
another setting at night. In that way, they might not 
arrive until 9 o'clock at night, or they might come at 
4 o'clock in the morning, and the children were about 
starting to "climb the wooden hill" when they heard the 
peculiar rattle of the cylinder and the voices of the Mc- 
Turgs, singing. 

"There they are," said Mr. Stewart, getting the old 
square lantern and lighting the candle within. The air 
was sharp, and the boys, having taken off their boots, 
could only stand at the window and watch the father as 
he went out to show the men where to set the "power," 
the dim light throwing fantastic shadows here and there, 
lighting up a face now and then, and bringing out the 
thresher, which seemed a silent monster to the children, 
who flattened their noses against the window-panes to 
be sure that nothing should escape them. The men's voices 
sounded cheerfully in the still night, and the roused tur- 
keys in the oaks peered about on their perches, black sil- 



30 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

houettes against the sky. The children would gladly 
have stayed up to greet the threshers, who were captains 
of industry in their eyes, but they were ordered off to 
bed by Mrs. Stewart, who said, "You must go to sleep 
in order to be up early in the morning." As they lay 
there in their beds under the sloping rafter roof, they 
heard the* hand riding furiously away to tell some of the 
neighbors that the threshers had come. They could hear 
the cackle of the hens as Mr. Stewart assaulted them and 
wrung their innocent necks. The crash of the ''sweeps" 
being unloaded sounded loud and clear in the night, and 
so watching the dance of the lights and shadows cast by 
the lantern on the plastered wall, they fell asleep. 

They were awakened next morning by the ringing 
beat of the iron sledge as the men drove stakes to hold 
the ''power" to the ground. The rattle of chains, the 
clang of iron bars, intermixed with laughter and snatches 
of song, came sharply through the frosty air. The smell 
of sausages being fried in the kitchen, the rapid tread of 
their busy mother as she hurried the breakfast forward, 
warned the boys that it was time to get up, although it 
was not yet dawn in the east, and they had a sense of be- 
ing awakened to a strange, new world. When they got 
down to breakfast, the men had finished their coffee and 
were out in the stock-yard completing preparations. 

This morning experience was superb. Though shivery 
and cold in the faint frosty light of the day, the children 
enjoyed every moment of it. The frost lay white on every 
surface, the frozen ground rang like iron under the steel- 
shod feet of the horses, the breath of the men rose up in 
little white puffs while they sparred playfully or rolled 
each other on the ground in jovial clinches of legs and 



*The hired man. 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 31 

The young men were anxiously waiting the first sound 
which should rouse the countryside and proclaim that 
theirs was the first machine to be at work. The older 
men stood in groups, talking politics or speculating on 
the price of wheat, pausing occasionally to slap their 
hands about their breasts. 

Finally, just as the east began to bloom and long 
streamers of red began to unroll along the vast gray dome 
of sky, Joe Gilman — ' ' Shouting Joe, " as he was called— 
mounted one of the stacks, and throwing down the 
cap-sheaf, lifted his voice in a ''Chippewa warwhoop." On 
a still morning like this his voice could be heard three 
miles. Long drawn and musical, it sped away over the 
iields, announcing to all the world that the McTurgs were 
ready for the race. Answers came back faintly from the 
frosty fields, where the dim figures of laggard hands could 
be seen hurrying over the ploughland ; then David called 
"All right," and the machine began to hum. 

In those days the machine was a J. I. Case or a "Buf- 
falo Pits" separator, and was moved by five pairs of 
horses attached to a power staked to the ground, round 
which they travelled to the left, pulling at the ends of 
long levers or sweeps. The power was planted some rods 
away from the machine, to which the force was carried 
by means of "tumbling rods," with "knuckle joints." 
The driver stood upon a platform above the huge, savage, 
cog-wheels round which the horses moved, and he was a 
great figure in the eyes of the boys. 

Driving looked like an easy job, but it was not. It Avas 
very tiresome to stand on that small platform all through 
the long day of the early fall, and on cold November 
mornings when the cutting wind roared over the plain, 
sweeping the dust and leaves along the road. It Avas far 
pleasanter to sit on the south side of the stack, as Tommy 



32 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

did, and watch the horses go round. It was necessary 
also for the driver to be a man of good judgment, for the 
power must be kept just to the right speed, and he should 
be able to gauge the motion of the cylinder by the pitch 
of its deep bass hum. There were always three men who 
went with the machine and were properly ''the thresh- 
ers." One acted as driver; the others were respectively 
' ' feeder ' ' and ' ' tender ' ' ; one of them fed the grain into 
the rolling cylinder, while the other, oil-can in hand, 
"tended" the separator. The feeder's position was the 
high place to which all boys aspired, and they used to 
stand in silent admiration watching the easy, powerful 
swing of David McTurg as he caught the bundles in the 
crook of his arm, and spread them out into a broad, 
smooth band upon which the cylinder caught and tore 
like some insatiate monster, and David was the ideal man 
in Lincoln's eyes, and to be able to feed a threshing ma- 
chine, the highest honor in the world. The boy who was 
chosen to cut bands went to his post like a soldier to 
dangerous picket duty. 

Sometimes David would take one of the small boys 
upon his stand, where he could see the cylinder whiz while 
flying wheat stung his face. Sometimes the driver would 
invite Tommy on the power to watch the horses go round, 
and when he became dizzy often took the youngster in his 
arms and running out along the moving sweep, threw him 
with a shout into David's arms. 

The boys who were just old enough to hold sacks for 
the measurer, did not enjoy threshing so well, but to Lin- 
coln and his mates it was the keenest joy. They wished 
it would never end. 

The wind blew cold and the clouds were flying across 
the bright blue sky, the straw glistened in the sun, the 
machine howled, the dust flew, the whip cracked, and 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 33 

the men worked like beavers to get the sheaves to the 
feeder, and to keep the straw and wheat away from the 
tail-end of the machine. These fellows, wallowing to 
their waists in the chaff, did so for the amusement of the 
boys, and for no other reason. 

They were always amused by the man who stood in 
the midst of the thick dust and the flying chaff at the 
head of the stacker, who took and threw away the end- 
less cataract of straw as if it were all play. His teeth 
shown like those of a negro out of his dust blackened face, 
and his shirt was wet with sweat, but he motioned for more 
straw, and the feeder, accepting the challenge, motioned 
for more speed, and so the driver swung his lash and 
yelled at the straining horses, the pitchers buckled to, 
the sleepy growl of the cylinder rose to a howl, the wheat 
rushed out in a stream as ''big as a stove-pipe," and the 
carriers were forced to trot back and forth from the gran- 
ary like mad, and to generally ''hump themselves" in 
order to keep the grain from piling up around the meas- 
urer where Ellis stood disconsolately holding sacks for 
old man Smith. 

"When the children got tired of wallowing in the straw, 
and with turning somersaults therein, they went down 
to help Rover catch the rats which were uncovered by 
the pitchers when they reached the stack bottom. It was 
all play to Lincoln, just as it had once been to the others. 
The horses, with their straining, outstretched necks, the 
loud and cheery shouts, the whistling of the driver, the 
roar and hum of the machinery, the flourishing of the 
forks, the supple movements of the brawny arms, the 
shouts of the threshers to one another, all blended with 
the wild sound of the wind overhead in the creaking 
branches of the oaks, formed a splendid drama for his 
recording brain. 



34 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

But for the boy who was forced to stand with old 
Daddy Smith in the flying dust beside the machine, it 
was a bad play. He was a part of the machine — of the 
crew. His liberty to come and go was gone. When 
Daddy was grinning at him out of the gray dust and 
the swirling chaff, the wheat beards were crawling down 
his back, scratching and rasping. His ears were stunned 
by the noise of the cylinder and the howl of the balance- 
wheel, and it did not help him any to have the old man 
say in a rasping voice, "Never mind the chaff, sonny — 
it ain't pizen." 

"Whirr — bang ! Something had gone into the cylinder, 
making the feeder dodge to escape the flying teeth, and 
the men seized the horses to stop the machine. The men 
then hailed such accidents with delight, for it afforded 
them a few minutes' rest while the crew put some new 
teeth in the ' ' concave. ' ' They had time to unbutton their 
shirts and get some of the beards out of their necks, to 
take a drink of water, and to let the deafness go out of 
their ears. 

At such times also some of the young fellows were 
sure to have a wrestling or a lifting match, and all kinds 
of jokes flew about. The man at the straw-stack leaned 
indolently on his fork and asked the feeder sarcastically 
if that was the best he could do, and remarked, "It's 
gettin' chilly up here. G-uess I'll have to go home and 
get my kid gloves." 

To this David laughingly responded, "I'll warm your 
carcass with a rope if you don't shut up," all of which 
gave the boys infinite delight. 

But the work began again, and Ellis was forced to take 
his place as regularly as the other men. As the sun 
neared the zenith, he looked often up to it — so often in 
fact that Daddy, observing it, cackled in great amuse- 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 35 

ment, ' ' Think you c 'n hurry it along, sonny ? The watched 
pot never boils, remember!" — which made the boy so 
angry he nearly kicked the old man on the shin. 

But at last the call for dinner sounded, the driver 
began to shout, "Whoa there, boys," to the teams and to 
hold his long whip before their eyes in order to con- 
vince them that he really meant "Whoa." The pitchers 
stuck their forks down in the stack and leaped to the 
ground; Billy, the band-cutter, drew from his wrist the 
string of his big knife ; the men slid down from the straw- 
pile and a race began among the teamsters to see who 
should be first unhitched and at the watering trough and 
at the table. 

It was always a splendid and dramatic moment to the 
boys as the men crowded round the well to wash, shout- 
ing, joking, cuffing each other, sloshing themselves with 
water, and accusing each other of having blackened the 
towel by using it to wash with rather than to wipe with. 

Mrs. Stewart and the hired girl, and generally some 
of the neighbors' wives (who changed "works" also) 
stood ready to bring on the food as soon as the men were 
seated. The table had been lengthened to its utmost and 
pieced out with the kitchen table, which usually was not 
of the same height, and planks had been laid for seats on 
stout kitchen chairs at each side. The men came in with 
noisy rush and took seats wherever they could find them, 
and their attack on "biled taters and chicken" should 
have been appalling to the women, but it was not. They 
smiled to see them eat. A single slash at a boiled potato, 
followed by two motions, and it disappeared. Grimy fin- 
gers lifted a leg of chicken to a wide mouth, and two 
snaps laid it bare as a slate pencil. To the children 
standing in the corner waiting, it seemed that every 
smitch of the dinner was going and that nothing would 



36 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

be left when the men got through, but there was, for food 
was plentiful. 

At last even the "gantest" of them filled up. Even 
Len had his limits, and something remained for the chil- 
dren and the women, who sat down at the second table, 
while David and William and Len returned to the ma- 
chine to put everything in order, to sew the belts, or take 
a bent tooth out of the "concave." Len, however, man- 
aged to return two or three times in order to have his 
jokes with the hired girl, who enjoyed it quite as much as 
he did. 

In the short days of October only a brief nooning was 
possible, and as soon as the horses had finished their oats, 
the roar and hum of the machine began again and con- 
tinued steadily all afternoon. Owen and Kover continued 
their campaign upon the rats which inhabited the bottom 
of the stacks and great was their excitement as the men 
reached the last dozen sheaves. Eover barked and Owen 
screamed half in fear and half from a boy 's savage delight 
in killing things, and very few rats escaped their com- 
bined efforts. 

To Ellis the afternoon seemed endless. His arms grew 
tired with holding the sacks against the lip of the half 
bushel, and his fingers grew sore with the rasp of the 
rough canvas out of which the sacks were made. When 
he thought of the number of times he must repeat these 
actions, his heart was numb with weariness. 

All things have an end ! By and by the sun grew big 
and red, night began to fall and the wind to die down. 
Through the falling gloom the machine boomed steadily 
with a new sound, a sort of solemn roar, rising at inter- 
vals to a rattling yell as the cylinder ran empty. The 
men were working silently, sullenly, moving dim and 
strange ; the pitchers on the stack, the feeder on the plat- 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 37 

form, and especially the workers on the high straw-pile, 
seemed afar off to Lincoln's eyes. The gray dust covered 
the faces of those near by, changing them into something 
mysterious and sad. At last he heard the welcome cry, 
"Turn out!" The men raised glad answer and threw 
aside their forks. 

Again came the gradual slowing down of the motion, 
while the driver called in a gentle, soothing voice: 
"Whoa, lads! Steady, boys, Whoa, now!" But the 
horses had been going on so long and so steadily that 
they checked their speed with difficulty. The men slid 
from the stacks, and seizing the ends of the sweeps, held 
them; but even after the power was still, the cylinder 
went on, until David, calling for a last sheaf, threw it in 
its open maw, choking it into silence. 

Then came the sound of dropping chains and iron 
rods, and the thud of the hoofs as the horses walked with 
laggard gait and down-falling heads to the barn. The men 
were more subdued than at dinner, washing with greater 
care, brushing the dust from their beards and clothes. 
The air was still and cool, the wind was gone, the sky 
deep, cloudless blue. 

The evening meal was more attractive to the boys 
than dinner. The table was lighted with a kerosene 
lamp, and the clean white linen, the fragrant dishes, the 
women flying about with steaming platters, all seemed 
very dramatic, very cheering to Lincoln as well as to the 
men who came into the light and warmth with aching 
muscles and empty stomach. 

There was always a good deal of talk at supper, but 
it was gentler than at the dinner hour. The younger fel- 
lows had their jokes, of course, and watched the hired 
girl attentively, while the old fellows discussed the day's 
yield of grain and the matters of the township. Ellis was 



38 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

now allowed a place at the first table like a first-class 
hand. 

The pie and the doughnuts and the coffee disappeared 
as fast as they could be brought, which seemed to please 
Mrs. Stewart, who said, ''Goodness sakes, yes; eat all 
you want. They was made to eat." 

The men were all, or nearly all, neighbors, or hands 
hired by the month, and some were like members of the 
family. Mrs. Stewart treated them all like visitors and 
not like hired help. No one feared a genuine rudeness 
from the other. 

After they had eaten their supper it was a great pleas- 
ure to the boys to go out to the barn and shed (all won- 
derfully changed now to their minds by the great new 
stack of straw), there to listen to the stories or jolly 
remarks of the men as they curried their tired horses 
munching busily at their hay, too weary to move a muscle 
otherwise, but enjoying the rubbing down which the men 
gave them with wisps of straws held in each hand. 

The light from the kitchen was very welcome, and how 
bright and warm it was with the mother's merry voice 
and smiling face where the women were moving to and 
fro, and talking even more busily than they worked. 

Sometimes in these old-fashioned days, after the sup- 
per table was cleared out of the way, and the men re- 
turned to the house, an hour or two of delicious merry 
making ended the day. Perhaps two or three of the sis- 
ters of the young men had dropped in, and the boys them- 
selves were in no hurry to get home. 

Around the fire the older men sat to tell stories while 
the girls trudged in and out, finishing up the dishes and 
getting the materials ready for breakfast. With speech- 
less content Lincoln sat to listen to stories of bears and 
Indians and logging on the "Wisconsin, and other tales of 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 39 

frontier life, and then at last, after beseeching, David 
opened the violin box and played. Strange how those 
giant hands became supple to the strings and bow. All day 
they had been handling the fierce straw or were covered 
with the grease and dirt of the machine, yet now they 
drew from the violin the wildest, wierdest strains, thril- 
ling Norse folk songs, Swedish dances and love ballads,, 
mournful, sensuous, and seductive. 

Lincoln could not understand why those tunes had 
that sad, sweet quality, but he could sit and listen ta 
them all night long. 

Oh, those rare days and rarer nights ! How fine they 
were then — and how mellow they are growing now as the 
slow-paced years drop a golden mist upon them. From 
this distance they seem so near that my heart aches to 
relive them, but they are so wholesome and so carefree 
that the world is poorer for the change. 



GENERAL CHARLES KING. 

General Charles King is no doubt Wisconsin's most vol- 
uminous writer. He was born in Albany, New York, in 1844; 
was graduated from the United States Military Academy in 
1866; was made captain of a company of cavalry engaged in 
Indian warfare in 1879, and was retired on account of wounds 
in June of that year. He came to Wisconsin in 1882 as inspec- 
tor and instructor of the Wisconsin National Guard. 

Besides serving in Indian warfare, he has also seen action 
in the Philippine Islands. His military life has been active 
enough to consume the energies of most men, but not so with 
this soldier. He is the author of more than fifty books, most 
of which deal with exciting and dramatic episodes, which come 
from his pen with the conviction and clarity that result only 
from actual knowledge and observation. 

Perhaps the best known of all his many books are "The 
Colonel's Daughter" and its sequel, "Marion's Faith." The first 
selection here given is one frequently quoted from the latter 
book, but the second is from one of his more recent volumes, 
entitled, "The Real Ulysses S. Grant," and it is characterized 
by crisp, clear statement and by a feeling of intense sincerity 
and conviction. 

General King is a familiar figure both on the streets of Mil- 
waukee and in every town in Wisconsin that boasts a company 
in the National Guard. His erect carriage and his whole bear- 
ing indicate youth and strength. He is a delightful lecturer, and 
a talk with him is an experience that one does not readily 
forget. He practically never mentions his own exploits, though 
they were many; but his accurate memory and his excellent 
powers of description are brought into play when the deeds of 
others are concerned. 



RAY'S RroE FOR LIFE 

From "MARION'S FAITH." Chap. 14. By Gen. Charles King, 
U.S.A. Copyright, 1887, by J. B. Lippincott Co. 

Darkness has settled down in the shadowy Wyoming 
valley. By the light of a tiny fire under the bank some 
twenty forms can be seen stretched upon the sand, — they 
are wounded soldiers. A little distance away are nine, 




GENERAL CHARLES KING 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 43 

others, shrouded in blankets : they are the dead. Huddled 
in confused and cowering group are a few score horses, 
many of them sprawled upon the sand motionless ; others 
occasionally struggle to rise or plunge about in their 
misery. Crouching among the timber, vigilant but weary, 
dispersed in a big, irregular circle around the beleaguered 
bivouac, some sixty soldiers are still on the active list. 
All around them, vigilant and vengeful, lurk the Chey- 
ennes. Every now and then the bark as of a coyote is 
heard, — a yelping, querulous cry, — and it is answered far 
across the valley or down the stream. There is no moon ; 
the darkness is intense, though the starlight is clear, and 
the air so still that the galloping hoofs of the Cheyenne 
ponies far out on the prairie sound close at hand. 

''That's what makes it hard," says Ray, who is bend- 
ing over the prostrate form of Captain Wayne. *'If it 
were storming or blowing, or something to deaden the 
hoof -beats, I could make it easier; but it's the only 
chance. ' ' 

The only chance of what? 

When the sun went down upon Wayne's timber cita- 
del, and the final account of stock was taken for the day, 
it was found that with one-fourth of the command, men 
and horses, killed and wounded, there were left not more 
than three hundred cartridges, all told, to enable some 
sixty men to hold out until relief could come against an 
enemy who encircled them on every side, and who had 
only to send over to the neighboring reservation — forty 
miles away — and get all the cartridges they wanted. 

Mr. would let their friends have them to kill 

"buffalo," though Mr. knew there wasn't a buffalo 

left within four hundred miles. 

They could cut through, of course, and race up the 
valley to find the — th, but they would have to leave the 



44 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

wounded and the dismounted behind, — to death by tor- 
ture, — so that ended the matter. Only one thing re- 
mained. In some way — by some means — word must be 
carried to the regiment. The chances were ten to one 
against the couriers slipping out. Up and down the val- 
ley, out on the prairie on both sides of the stream, the 
Cheyennes kept vigilant watch. They had their hated 
enemies in a death-grip, and only waited the coming of 
other warriors and more ammunition to finish them — as 
the Sioux had finished Custer. They knew, though the 
besieged did not, that, the very evening before, the — th 
had marched away westward, and were far from their 
comrades. All they had to do was to prevent any one's 
escaping to give warning of the condition of things in 
"Wayne 's command. All, therefore, were on the alert, and 
of this there was constant indication. The man or men 
who made the attempt would have to run the gauntlet. 
The one remaining scout who had been employed for 
such work refused the attempt as simply madness. He had 
lived too long among the Indians to dare it, yet Wayne 
and Ray and Dana and Hunter, and the whole command, 
for that matter, knew that some one must try it. Who 
was it to be? 

There was no long discussion. Wayne called the sulk 
ing scout a damned coward, which consoled him some 
what, but didn't help matters. Ray had been around the, 
rifle-pits taking observations. Presently he returned, 
leading Dandy up near the fire,— the one sheltered light 
that was permitted. 

"Looks fine as silk, don't he?" he said, smoothing his 
pet's glossy neck and shoulder, for Ray's groom had no 
article of religion which took precedence over the duty 
he owed the lieutenant's horse, and no sooner was the sun 
down than he had been grooming him as though still in 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 45 

garrison. "Give him all the oats you can steal, Hogan; 
some of the men must have a hatful left. ' ' 

Wayne looked up startled. 

' ' Ray, I can 't let you go ! " 

"There's no helping it. Some one must go, and who 
can you send 1 ' ' 

Even there the captain noted the grammatical eccen- 
tricity. What was surprising was that even there he made 
no comment thereon. He was silent. Eay had spoken 
truth. There was no one whom he could order to risk 
death in breaking his way out since the scout had said 
'twas useless. There were brave men there who would 
gladly try it had they any skill in such matters, but that 
was lacking. "If any man in the company could 'make 
it, ' that man was Ray. ' ' He was cool, daring, keen ; he 
was their best and lightest rider, and no one so well knew 
the country or better knew the Cheyennes. Wayne even 
wished that Ray might volunteer. There was only this 
about it, — the men would lose much of their grit with him 
away. They swore by him, and felt safe when he was 
there to lead or encourage. But the matter was settled 
by Ray himself. He was already stripping for the race. 

"GTet those shoes off," he said to the farrier, who came 
at his bidding, and Dandy wonderingly looked up from 
the gunny-sack of oats in which he had buried his nozzle. 
"What on earth could that blacksmith mean by tugging 
out his shoe-nails?" was his reflection, though, like the 
philosopher he was, he gave more thought to his oats, — 
an unaccustomed luxury just then. 

There seemed nothing to be said by anybody. Wayne 
rose painfully to his feet. Hunter stood in silence by, 
and a few men grouped themselves around the little knot 
of officers. Ray had taken off his belt and was poking 
out the carbine cartridges from the loops, — there were 



46 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

not over ten. Then he drew the revolver, carefully ex- 
. amined the chambers to see that all were filled ; motioned 
with his hand to those on the ground, saying, quietly, 
"Pick those up. Y'all may need every one of 'em." The 
Blue Grass dialect seemed cropping out the stronger for 
his preoccupation. ''Got any spare Colts?" he continuedj 
turning to Wayne. ' ' I only want another round. ' ' These 
he stowed as he got them in the smaller loops on the right 
side of his belt. Then he bent forward to examine Dandy's 
hoofs again. 

''Smooth them off as well as you can. Get me a little 
of that sticky mud there, one of you men. There ! ram 
that into every hole and smooth off the surface. Make it 
look just as much like a pony's as you know how. They 
can't tell Dandy's tracks from their own then, don't you 
see?" 

Three or four pairs of hands worked assiduously to do 
his bidding. Still, there was no talking. No one had any- 
thing he felt like saying just then. 

"Who's got the time?" he asked. 

Wayne looked at his watch, bending down over the 
fire. 

"Just nine fifteen." 
"All right. I must be off in ten minutes. The moon 
will be up at eleven." 

Dandy had finished the last of his oats by this time, 
and was gazing contentedly about him. Ever since quite 
early in the day he had been in hiding down there under 
the bank. He had received only one trifling clip, though 
for half an hour at least he had been springing around 
where the bullets flew thickest. He was even pining 
for his customary gallop over the springy turf, and won- 
dering why it had been denied him that day. 

"Only a blanket and surcingle," said Ray, to his 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 47 

orderly, who was coming up with the heavy saddle and 
bags. ''We're riding to win tonight, Dandy and I, and 
must travel light. ' ' 

He flung aside his scouting hat, knotted the silk hand- 
kerchief he took from his throat so as to confine the dark 
hair that came tumbling almost into his eyes, buckled the 
holster-belt tightly round his waist, looked doubtfully an 
instant at his spurs, but decided to keep them on. Then 
he turned to Wayne. 

"A word with you, captain." 

The others fell back a short distance, and for a moment 
the two stood alone speaking in low tones. All else was 
silent except the feverish moan of some poor fellow lying 
sorely wounded in the hollow, or the occasional pawing 
and stir among the horses. In the dim light of the little 
fire the others stood watching them. They saw that 
Wayne was talking earnestly, and presently extended his 
hand, and they heard Ray, somewhat impatiently, say, 
''Never mind that now," and noted that at first he did 
not take the hand; but finally they came back to the 
group and Eay spoke : 

"Now, fellows, just listen a minute. I've got to break 
out on the south side. I know it better. Of course there 
are no end of Indians out there, but most of the crowd are 
in the timber above and below. There will be plenty on 
the watch, and it isn't possible that I can gallop out 
through them without being heard. Dandy and I have 
got to sneak for it until we 're spotted, or clear of them, 
then away we go. I hope to work well out towards the 
bluffs before they catch a glimpse of me, then lie flat and 
go for all I 'm worth to where we left the regiment. Then 
you bet it won't be long before the old crowd will be 
coming down just a humping. I'll have 'em here by six 
o 'clock, if, indeed, I don 't find them coming ahead tonight. 



48 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

Just keep up your grit, and we '11 do our level best, Dandy 
and I; won't we, old boy? Now, I want to see. Dana a 
minute and the other wounded fellows, ' ' and he went and 
bent down over them, saying a cheery word to each ; and 
rough, suffering men held out feeble hands to take a 
parting grip, and looked up into his brave young eyes. 
He had long known how the rank and file regarded him» 
but had been disposed to laugh it off. Tonight as he 
stopped to say a cheering word to the wounded, and 
looked down at some pale, bearded face that had stood 
at his shoulder in more than one tight place in the old 
Apache days in Arizona, and caught the same look of 
faith and trust in him, something like a quiver hovered 
for a minute about his lips, and his own brave eyes grew 
moist. They knew he was daring death to save them, but 
that was a view of the case that did not seem to occur to 
him at all. At last he came to Dana lying there a little 
apart. The news that Eay was going to *'ride for them" 
had been whispered all through the bivouac by this time,, 
and Dana turned and took Ray's hand in both his own. 

"God speed you, old boy! If you make it all safe, get 
word to mother that I didn't do so badly in my first square 
tussle, will you?" 

"If I make it, you'll be writing it yourself this time 
tomorrow night. Even if I don't make it, don't you 
worry, lad. The Colonel and Stannard ain't the fellows 
to let us shift for ourselves with the country full of Chey- 
ennes. They'll be down here in two days, anyhow. Good- 
by, Dana; keep your grip and we'll larrup 'em yet." 

Then he turned back to Wayne, Hunter, and the 
doctor. 

"One thing occurs to me, Hunter. You and six or 
eight men take your carbines and go up-stream with a 
dozen horses until you come to the rifie-pits. Be all ready. 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 49 

If I get clear through you won't hear any row, but if 
they sight or hear me before I get through, then, of course, 
there will be the biggest kind of an excitement, and you'll 
hear the shooting. The moment it begins, give a yell; 
fire your guns, go whooping up the stream with the horses 
as though the whole crowd were trying to cut out that 
way, but get right back. The excitement will distract 
them and help me. Now, good-by, and good luck to you, 
crowd. ' ' 

'*Eay, will you have a nip before you try it? You 
must be nearly used up after this day's work." And he 
held out his flask to him. 

"No. I had some hot coffee just ten minutes ago, and 
I feel like a four-year-old. I'm riding new colors; didn't 
you know it? By jove !" he added,. suddenly, "this is my 
first run under the Preakness blue." Even then and there 
he thought too quickly to speak her name. "Now then, 
some of you crawl out to the south edge of the timber with 
me, and lie flat in the prairie and keep me in sight as long 
as you can." He took one more look at his revolver. "I'm 
drawing to a bob-tail. If I fail, I'll bluff; if I fill, I'll 
knock spots out of any threes in the Cheyenne outfit.'' 

Three minutes more and the watchers at the edge of 
the timber have seen him, leading Dandy by the bridle, 
slowly, stealthily, creeping out into the darkness; a 
moment the forms of man and horse are outlined against 
the stars : then are swallowed up in the night. Hunter 
and the sergeants with him grasp their carbines and lie 
prone upon the turf, watching, waiting. 

In the bivouac is the stillness of death. Ten soldiers 
— carbines in hand — mounted on their unsaddled steeds 
are waiting in the darkness at the upper rifle-pits for 
Hunter's signal. If he shouts, every man is to yell and 
break for the front. Otherwise, all are to remain quiet. 



50 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

Back at the watch-fire under the bank Wayne is squatting, 
watch in one hand, pistol in the other. Near by lie the 
wounded, still as their comrades just beyond, — the dead. 
All around among the trees and in the sand pits up- and 
down-stream, fourscore men are listening to the beating 
of their own hearts. In the distance, once in a while, is 
heard the yelp of coyote or the neigh of Indian pony. In 
the distance, too, are the gleams of Indian fires, but they 
are beyond the positions occupied by the besieging war- 
riors. Darkness shrouds them. Far aloft the stars are 
twinkling through the cool and breezeless air. With wind, 
or storm, or tempest, the gallant fellow whom all hearts 
are following would have something to favor, something 
to aid; but in this almost cruel stillness nothing under 
God can help him, — ^nothing but darkness and his own 
brave spirit. 

"If I get through this scrape in safety," mutters 
Wayne between his set teeth, "the — th shall never hear 
the last of this work of Ray's." 

"If I get through this night," mutters Ray to himself, 
far out on the prairie now, where he can hear tramping 
hoofs and gutteral voices, "it will be the best run ever 
made for the Sanford blue, though I do make it." 

Nearly five minutes have passed, and the silence has 
been unbroken by shot or shout. The suspense is becom- 
ing unbearable in the bivouac, where every man is listen- 
ing, hardly daring to draw breath. At last Hunter, rising 
to his knees, which are all a-tremble with excitement, mut- 
ters to Sergeant Roach, who is still crouching beside 
him, — 

"By Heaven! I believe he'll slip through without 
being seen." 

Hardly had he spoken when far, far out to the south- 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 51 

west two bright flashes leap through the darkness. Before 
the report can reach them there comes another, not so 
brilliant. Then, the ringing bang, bang of two rifles, the 
answering crack of a revolver. 

"Quick, men. Go!" yells Hunter, and darts headlong 
through the timber back to the stream. There is a sudden 
burst of shots and yells and soldier cheers ; a mighty crash 
and sputter and thunder of hoofs up the stream-bed; a 
few of the men at the west end, yelling like demons, dash 
in support of the mounted charge in the bed of the stream. 
For a minute or two the welkin rings with shouts, shots 
(mainly those of the startled Indians), then there is as 
sudden a rush back to cover, without a man or horse hurt 
or missing. In the excitement and darkness the Cheyennes 
could only fire wild, but now the night air resounds with 
taunts and yells and triumphant war-whoops. For full 
five minutes there is a jubilee over the belief that they 
have penned in the white soldiers after their dash for 
liberty. Then, little by little, the yells and taunts subside. 
Something has happened to create discussion in the Chey- 
enne camps, for the crouching soldiers can hear the live- 
liest kind of a pow-wow far up-stream. What does it 
mean? Has Eay slipped through, or — have they caught 
him? 

Despite pain and weakness, Wayne hobbles out to 
where Sergeant Eoaeh is still watching and asks for 
tidings. 

"I can't be sure, captain; one thing's certain, the 
lieutenant rode like a gale. I could follow the shots a 
full half-mile up the valley, where they seemed to grow 
thicker, and then stop all of a sudden in the midst of the 
row that was made down here. They've either given it 
up and have a big party out in chase, or else they 've got 
him. God knows which. If they've got him, there'll be 



52 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

a scalp-dance over there in a few minutes, curse them!" 
And the sergeant choked. 

Wayne watched some ten minutes without avail. Noth- 
ing further was seen or heard that night to indicate what 
had happened to Ray except once. Far up the valley he 
saw a couple of flashes among the bluffs; so did Roach, 
and that gave him hope that Dandy had carried his 
master in safety that far at least. 

He crept back to the bank and cheered the wounded 
with the news of what he had seen. Then another word 
came in ere long. An old sergeant had crawled out to the 
front, and could hear something of the shouting and talk- 
ing of the Indians. He could understand a few words only, 
though he had lived among the Cheyennes nearly five 
years. They can barely understand one another in the 
dark, and use incessant gesticulation to interpret theii 
own speech; but the sergeant gathered that they were 
upbraiding somebody for not guarding a coulee, and in- 
ferred that someone had slipped past their pickets or they 
wouldn't be making such a row. 

That the Cheyennes did not propose to let the be- 
sieged derive much comfort from their hopes was soon 
apparent. Out from the timber up the stream came 
sonorous voices shouting taunt and challenge, inter- 
mingled with the vilest expletives they had picked up 
from their cowboy neighbors, and all the frontier slang 
in the Cheyenne vocabulary. 

"Hullo! sogers; come out some more times. We no 
shoot. Stay there : we come plenty quick. Hullo ! white 
chief, come fight fair; soger heap 'fraid! Come, have 
scalp-dance plenty quick. Catch white soldier; eat him 
heart bime by." 

"Ah, go to your grandmother, the ould witch in hell, 
ye musthard-sthriped convict!" sings out some irrepres- 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 53 

sible Paddy in reply, and Wayne, who is disposed to 
serious thoughts, would order silence, but it occurs to him 
that Mulligan's crude sallies have a tendency to keep the 
men lively. 

"I can't believe they've got him," he whispers to the 
doctor. *'If they had they would soon recognize him as an 
officer and come bawling out their triumph at bagging a 
chief. His watch, his shoes, his spurs, his underclothing, 
would all betray that he was an officer, though he hasn't 
a vestige of uniform. Pray Grod he is safe ! ' ' 

Will you follow Ray and see? Curiosity is what lures 
the fleetest deer to death, and a more dangerous path than 
that which Ray has taken one rarely follows. Will you 
try it, reader — just you and I? Come on, then. We'll 
Bee what our Kentucky boy ''got in the draw," as he 
would put it. 

Ray's footfall is soft as a kitten's as he creeps out upon 
the prairie; Dandy stepping gingerly after him, wonder- 
ing but obedient. For over a hundred yards he goes, until 
both up- and down-stream he can almost see the faint fires 
of the Indians in the timber. Farther out he can hear 
hoof-beats and voices, so he edges along westward until 
he comes suddenly to a depression, a little winding 
"cooley" across the prairie, through which in the early 
spring the snows are carried off from some ravine among 
the bluffs. Into this he noiselessly feels his way and 
Dandy follows. He creeps along to his left and finds that 
its general course is from the southwest. He knows well 
that the best way to watch for objects in the darkness is 
to lie flat on low ground so that everything approaching 
may be thrown against the sky. His plain-craft tells him 
that by keeping in the water-course he will be less apt to 
be seen, but will surely come across some lurking Indians. 
That he expects. The thing is to get as far through them 



54 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

as possible before being seen or heard, then mount and 
away. After another two minutes ' creeping he peers over 
the western bank. Now the fires up-stream can be seen 
in the timber, and dim, shadowy forms pass and repass. 
Then close at hand come voices and hoof-beats. Dandy 
pricks up his ears and wants to neigh, but Ray grips his 
nostrils like a vise, and Dandy desists. At rapid lope, 
within twenty yards, a party of half a dozen warriors go 
bounding past on their way down the valley, and no 
sooner have they crossed the gulley than he rises and 
rapidly pushes on up the dry sandy bed. Thank heaven ! 
there are no stones. A minute more and right in front 
of him, not a stone's throw away, he hears the deep tones 
of Indian voices in conversation. Whoever they may be 
they are in the "cooley" and watching the prairie. They 
can see nothing of him, nor he of them. Pass them in the 
ten-foot-wide ravine he cannot. He must go back a short 
distance, make a sweep to the east so as not to go between 
those watchers and the guiding fires, then trust to luck. 
Turning stealthily he brings Dandy around, leads back 
down the ravine for some thirty yards, then turns to his 
horse, pats him gently one minute ; "Do your prettiest for 
your colors, my boy," he whispers; springs lightly, noise- 
lessly to his back, and at cautious walk comes up on the 
level prairie, with the timber behind him three hundred 
yards away. Southward he can see the dim outline of the 
bluffs. Westward — once that little arroyo is crossed — he 
knows the prairie to be level and unimpeded, fit for a 
race ; but he needs to make a detour to pass the Indians 
guarding it, get away beyond them, cross it to the west 
far behind them, and then look out for stray parties. 
Dandy ambles lightly along, eager for fun and little 
appreciating the danger. Eay bends down on his neck, 
intent with eye and ear. He feels that he has got well 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 55 

out east of the Indian picket unchallenged, when suddenly 
voices and hoofs come bounding up the valley from below. 
He must cross their front, reach the ravine before them, 
and strike the prairie beyond. ''Go, Dandy!" he mutters 
with gentle presure of leg, and the sorrel bounds lightly 
away, circling southwestward under the guiding rein. 
Another minute and he is at the arroyo and cautiously 
descending, then scrambling up the west bank, and then 
from the darkness comes savage challenge, a sputter of 
pony hoofs. Ray bends low and gives Dandy one vigorous 
prod with the spur, and with muttered prayer and 
clinched teeth and fists he leaps into the wildest race for 
his life. 

Bang ! bang ! go two shots close behind him. Crack ! 
goes his pistol at a dusky form closing in on his right. 
Then come yells, shots, the uproar of hoofs, the distant 
cheer and charge at camp, a breathless dash for and close 
along under the bluffs where his form is best concealed, a 
whirl to the left into the first ravine that shows itself, and 
despite shots and shouts and nimble ponies and vengeful 
foes, the Sanford colors are riding far to the front, and 
all the racers of the reservations cannot overhaul them. 



THE FINAL BLOW 

From "THE TRUE ULYSSES S. GRANT." Chapter XXXVIII. 
Copyrig-ht, 1914, by J. B. Lippincott Co. 

Long months before the melancholy failure of that ill- 
omened bank, the General had told Badeau of the fabulous 
profits the firm was realizing, and Badeau went to their 
old comrade of the war and White House days — to Horace 
Porter — and asked that reticent but experienced soldier- 
citizen his opinion, and Porter solemnly shook his head. 
Such profits, he said, were impossible in a business hon- 



56 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

estly conducted. But Grant saw on every side men by 
the dozen who had started with less than his modest cap- 
ital and had gathered fortunes in Wall Street. He was so 
confident in the sagacity and judgment of Ulysses, Jr., 
that he invested his every dollar with the firm and rein- 
vested every penny of the profits which he did not lavish 
on his loved ones or on his followers and friends. Like 
Thackeray's most lovable hero, Colonel Newcome, he 
thought to share his good fortune with many of his kith 
and kin and urged their sending their savings to be in- 
vested for them by brilliant young "Buck" and his sa- 
gacious partner — that wonderful wizard of finance, Mr. 
Ward. Aside from the chagrin of seeing some of his rec- 
ommendations disregarded, and certain of his opponents 
regarded first by Mr. Garfield and later by Mr. Arthur, 
General Grant was living in those years a life of ease, 
luxury, and freedom from care as never before he had 
enjoyed. Julia Dent was as ever first and foremost in his 
world, but the children were the source of pride and joy. 
unmistakable. Devoted, dutiful, and loyal they unques- 
tionably were, but Grant believed of his first born that 
he was destined to become renowned as a general, and of 
"Buck" and Jesse that they were born financiers and 
business men. As for Princess Nellie, the father's love 
and yearning for that one daughter of his house and 
name was beyond all measure. No man ever loved home, 
wife, and children more tenderly, more absorbingly. 

Although widely scattered at the time, this heart- 
united household had been anticipating a blithe and merry 
Christmas at the close of the year 1883. When he was 
alighting from his carriage just before midnight, with the 
welcoming chimes pealing on the frosty air, the General's 
foot slipped on the icy pavement, he fell heavily, a muscle 
snapped in the thigh, possibly one of those injured twenty 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 57 

years earlier, the day of that fateful stumble at CarroUton, 
and he was carried into the house, never thereafter to 
leave it in health or strength. 

Crutches again, and later a cane, long were necessary. 
In March, they took him to Fortress Monroe so that he 
could hobble about in the soft air and sunshine. In April 
he was back again in Gotham, able to drive his favorite 
team, but not to walk. On Sunday, the 4th day of May, 
the wizard partner, Ward, came into their home and quite 
casually announced that the Marine Bank of New York, 
in which Grant & Ward had large deposits, needed per- 
haps one hundred and fifty thousand dollars to tide them 
over a temporarj^ difficulty. If General Grant could 
borrow that much over Monday, Grant & Ward would 
not have to lose a cent; otherwise they stood to lose per- 
haps fifty or sixty thousand. Of course the lender would 
lose nothing, said Ward, as there was a million, at least, 
of securities in the vaults. 

The world knows the rest>— how unsuspiciously our 
General called on his friend and fellow horseman, Mr. 
William H. Vanderbilt, said that he needed one hundred 
and fifty thousand for a day or so, and came away with 
a cheque for that amount. For no other man probably 
would Mr. Vanderbilt have parted unsecured with such 
a sum. The cheque was promptly endorsed and turned 
over to Mr. Ward, who took it unconcernedly and then 
his leave. 

Tuesday morning. May 6th^ believing himself a million- 
aire and the brief indebtedness to Vanderbilt already 
cancelled, Grant alighted at the Wall Street office to find 
an ominous gathering. "Father, you had better go home 
— the bank has failed," said Ulysses, Jr., with misery in 
his eyes, but Grant stayed to investigate. Badeau, the 
faithful, hastening in at noon, found the old chief seated 



58 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

in the rear office, calm in the midst of stress and storm. 
''We are all ruined here," he simply said. Ward had 
vanished, the key of the vaults with him, and when they 
were finally opened, the boasted ''securities" were found 
to be but shadows. The ruin was complete. 

Everything they had — all the beautiful gifts, trophies, 
souvenirs, even the little houses owned by Mrs. Grant in 
Washington, and the repurchased Dent property about 
St. Louis — had to be sold. Grant insisted, though it left 
them, for the time at least, absolutely penniless. It had 
dragged down others with them; it involved his honored 
name in a whirlpool of censure, criticism, and calumny 
that well-nigh crushed him. Fallen from such supremely 
high estate, the insults and indignities that beset him now 
far outweighed the slights and sneers that had been his 
portion in the days of his earlier humiliation. Over the 
depths of the misery that had come to him in his old and 
recently honored age let us draw the curtain. No man on 
earth could know the suffering it cost him. Only one 
woman could faintly see. Helping hands there were out- 
stretched to him instanter, and money to meet the imme- 
diate need. Then, as the storm subsided and the extent 
of Ward's villainy and Grant's innocence became known, 
new measures were taken to provide against absolute 
want. A trust fund had already been raised. A measure 
was speedily set on foot to restore to Grant the rank and 
pay which he had surrendered on assuming the presi- 
dency,, and a modest competence would thus be insured 
him and those he loved. There was a home in which to 
live. They could even spend the summers at the seashore. 
There were offers of congenial occupation that might have 
proved mildly lucrative. There was measurable return to 
hope and possible health. There had never been com- 
plaint or repining. To all about him he had been gentle- 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 59 

ness, consideration, kindliness itself. There was just one 
cause of new, yet slight anxiety : 

All through that summer of '84, while at Long Branch, 
his throat had been giving him pain, and a Philadelphia 
physician, examining it for the first time late in Septem- 
ber, advised, even urged, says Badeau, his consulting a 
specialist on returning to town. For a time he took no 
heed. He was writing now, long hours each day, but at 
last he called, as further urged by his own physician, upon 
that distinguished expert. Dr. J. H. Douglas, and that eve- 
ning calmly admitted that the trouble in his throat was 
cancerous in tendency. And that this was true, the fact 
that he suddenly dropped the luxury of all the days that 
had followed Donelson — his cigar — and the sufferings that 
followed in November and December proved beyond pos- 
sibility of doubt. * * * 

And meanwhile a nation stood with bated breath and 
watched and prayed. Crowds gathered about the house 
and importuned the physicians for tidings. Congress had 
passed amid scenes of emphatic popular approval a bill 
restoring him again to the generalship of old — almost the 
last act signed by Mr. Arthur before leaving, as it was 
almost the first commission signed by Mr. Cleveland after 
entering, the "White House. 

Then presently, for quiet and for better air, as all re- 
member, they bore him to the Drexel cottage at Mount 
McGregor, near Saratoga Springs, and here, his voice 
utterly gone, compelled to make his wishes known by 
signs, compelled to complete the pages of his Memoirs 
with pad and pencil, our stricken soldier indomitably held 
to his self-appointed task, once more "fighting it out on 
this line if it took all summer. ' ' Never even at Shiloh, in 
front of Vieksburg, or in the fire-flashing Wilderness was 
he more tenacious, determined, heroic, for now intense 



tjO WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

suffering accompanied almost every move and moment. 
Physicians were constantly at hand; Fred, the devoted 
son, ever at his side. Here there came to see him and to 
sympathize old comrades — even old enemies — of the war 
days, all thought of rancor buried now. Here, just as 
thirty years earlier he had hastened to offer aid, came 
Buckner (and this time unprotesting) in unconditional 
surrender ; for beneath the shadow of that hovering wing 
the last vestige of sectional pride gave way to fond mem- 
ories of the old and firm friendship. Here, almost as the 
twilight deepened into the gloom of night eternal, they 
bore him the tribute of honor and respect from men whom 
he had vehemently opposed — foeman-in-chief to the 
Union, Jefferson Davis, and soldier-candidate and political 
foe, Winfield S. Hancock. Here they read him letters, tele- 
grams, editorials from every corner of the Union he had 
striven to weld and secure, every line telling of world- 
wide sympathy, honor, and affection. Here, almost at the 
last, he penciled those farewell pages of those fruitful 
volumes, which, whatever his earlier defects in style, have 
been declared classic in modern literature. Here, ere the 
light went out forever, he wrote the pathetic missive, his 
final words of love, longing, and devotion to the wife 
whom he held peerless among women, to the children 
whom he loved with infinite tenderness, and for whose 
future comfort, even in the face of such persistent torment 
and impending death, he had labored to the very last. 
And then, as he completed the final paragraph — the 
story of his soldier-life and services — and with faltering 
hand signed the final letter, he closed his wearied eyes 
upon the group that hovered ever about him, eager to 
garner every look and whisper, and so the long fight 
ended, even as it had begun, almost without a sigh. Appar- 
ently without consciousness of pain, certainly without 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 61 

struggle or suffering, surrounded by that devoted house- 
hold — wife, sons, and only daughter — the greatest of our 
warriors passed onward into the valley of shadows, and 
to immortality. 

Thirty years have passed since that which struck from 
our muster rolls the name of our first and foremost gen- 
eral — thirty years, as these pages are given to the light, 
since that summer day on which, with the highest honors 
and the greatest retinue ever accorded to American citi- 
zen or soldier, the flag-enshrouded casket was borne 
almost the length of all Manhattan ; Hancock, the superb 
on many a battlefield, heading the league-long procession 
of soldiery, the world-garnered dignitaries from every 
state and clime. Amidst the solemn thunder of the guns 
of the warships moored along the Hudson, the farewell 
volleys of the troops aligned along the heights, in the 
presence of the President and cabinet, the supreme court 
and the diplomatic corps, the governors of nearly every 
commonwealth, eminent soldiers, sailors, veterans of the 
Civil War, the gray mingling with the blue, and all en- 
gulfed in a vast multitude of mourners, the final prayers 
were said, the last benediction spoken, and under the 
shadow of the beloved flag he had served with such fidelity 
and to such eminent purpose, they laid to rest the honored 
soldier whose valiant service had secured to them and to 
their posterity the blessings of union, progress, and tran- 
quility, and whose crowning message to the nation he had 
restored was the simple admonition, "Let us have peace." 

And in those thirty years the people of our land have 
had abundant time to study and to reflect. Each succeed- 
ing year adds to their reverence for their greatest friend, 
leader, and statesman, Abraham Lincoln. Each succeed- 
ing year seems to increase their appreciation of their 
greatest soldier, Ulysses Grant, and yet it sometimes seems 



62 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

as though in the magnitude of the obstacles overcome, the 
immensity of the military problems solved, the supreme 
soldiership of the man has blinded us for the time to the 
other virtues, less heroic, perhaps, yet not less marked 
and true, virtues as son, as husband, father, and friend, 
not often equalled in other men, if ever excelled. * * * 
And was not his a marvelous career? Cradled in the 
cottage, he spoke for years from the seat of the mightiest. 
Chosen and trained for his country's wars, he loved best 
the arts of peace. Schooled as a regular, he to the fullest 
extent and from the very first believed in the volunteer. 
Ignored by book and bureau soldiers at the start, despite 
the fine record of the Mexican campaigns, indebted to a 
Western governor for the opportunity refused him by the 
War Department, he held his modest way, uncomplaining, 
asking only to be made of use. One year had raised him 
from the twilight of a Western town to the triumph of 
Donelson; two years made him the victor of Vicksburg, 
the head of the armies of the West; three had set him in 
supreme command, deferred to even by those who late 
as '62 had sought to down him ; four and the sword of the 
chivalric Lee was his to do with as he would — the rebel- 
lion crushed, the war ended — and then, with our martyred 
Lincoln lying in the grave ever watered by a nation's 
tears, small wonder was it that twice the people held 
Grant long years at their head, and when he had returned 
from that globe-circling triumphal progress, in large num- 
bers would again have called him to the White House, an 
uncrowned monarch, the chosen of sovereign citizens. 
Was he greater then than in the chain of ills that fol- 
lowed? Tricked by those he trusted, himself unskilled 
in guile, ruined financially by those he had been taught 
to hold infallible, and finally confronted by the dread con- 
viction that, though barely beyond the prime of life, his 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 63 

days were numbered — was he ever amid the thunder of 
saluting cannon and the cheers of countless multitudes so 
great as when, with the grim destroyer clutching at his 
throat, he fought for life that through those matchless 
Memoirs he might earn the means to wipe out every pos- 
sible obligation and provide in modest comfort, at least, 
for those he loved and must soon leave to mourn him? 
In those last heroic days at Mt. McGregor he stood re- 
vealed in his silent suffering, the ideal of devotion, en- 
durance, and determination, until, his great work done, 
his toil and trials ended, his sword long since sheathed, 
his pen now dropping from the wearied, nerveless hand, 
he could turn to the Peace Ineffable and sink to rest — our 
greatest soldier — our honored President — our foremost 
citizen. Aye, soldier, statesman, loyal citizen he was ; and 
yet more, for in purity of life, in love of home and wife 
and children, in integrity unchallenged, in truth and 
honor unblemished, in manner simplicity itself — though 
ever coupled with that quiet dignity that made him peer 
among the princes of the earth — in speech so clean that 
oath or execration never soiled his lips, unswerving in his 
faith, a martyr to his friendships, merciful to the fallen, 
magnanimous to the foe, magnificent in self-discipline, 
was he not also, and in all that the grand old name im- 
plies. Grant — the gentleman? 



JOHN MUIR. 

John Muir was born at Dunbar, Scotland, April 21, 1838, 
and died at Los Angeles, California, December 24, 1914. He 
attended school before he had completed his third year of age, 
but even before this time his grandfather had taught him the 
letters of the alphabet upon the signs in the vicinity. He 
remained in the Scotch schools until he was eleven and made 
most valuable use of his time, as may be judged by his prog- 
ress, especially in Latin. At the age of eleven he had to leave 
school to accompany his father to the new home in the forests 
of Wisconsin. 

Upon their arrival in America after a voyage which was to 
John and his brother one constant round of happy experiences, 
there was no further opportunity for elementary schooling. His 
education became that of the toiler and he stored his mind 
with knowledge acquired from the observation of the plants 
and animals of the woods and lakes and from the association 
and study of the animals of the farm. He found opportunity 
to read the few books which came into his possession, but the 
strict regulation of the home made him read largely by 
snatches. His fertile brain was employed almost constantly in 
the matter of inventions. His duties on the farm comprised all 
activities from that of cultivating the fields to the building of 
houses and barns and the digging of wells. In his recent book 
"The Story of My Boyhood and Youth," he has graphically de- 
scribed his work of digging a well by chiselling for nearly 
eighty feet through the solid granite. 

Muir remained on the farm until he had attained his ma- 
jority. He then went to the capitol of the state to exhibit some 
of his wonderful inventions at the State Fair. This experience 
led to his employment in a shop in Prairie du Chien, where he 
worked part of the year. He then went to the University, 
where he earned his way during the four years of his course. 
He completed his course of study there with the class of 1864, 
and then, according to his own statement, he plunged immedi- 
ately into the work of geologist, explorer, and naturalist. His 
work was quite largely in the Yosemite region of California 
and among the glaciers of the Sierras and Alaska. In the latter 
region during the year of 1881 he explored the glacier named 
after him. It was, however, his description of the Yosemite 
Valley that first brought him into prominence. He made an 
extended search for the De Long Arctic exploring party, which 
was lost in its effort to reach the far North. Later he travelled, 
part of the time in company with John Burroughs, through 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 65 

Hawaii, Russia, Siberia, Manchuria, India, Australasia, and 
South America. 

No place, however, furnished him with such rich material 
about which to tell his thoughts as did his adopted home, 
California, and the newer Alaska. In the later years of his 
life his residence was at Martinez, California. He was married 
to Louise Strenzel in 1880. To them was born a daughter, 
Helen, who still lives in California and who was with her father 
at the time of his death. 

While John Muir's experience as a pioneer in the forests 
of Wisconsin, reveals the severe hardships of that life, it reveals 
many of the joys as well, and shows that his active brain was 
open to all the avenues of self education. Field, forest, and 
lake were full of opportunities for him to observe and study, 
and as a result John and his brother, David, were fine natur- 
alists, irrespective of books upon the subject. John's home life 
was rich in the companionship of brothers and sisters, and his 
mother was most sympathetic and helpful to him in his aspi- 
rations to know and to become the scholar. 

The Scotch schools had given him such training as enabled 
him to use books as tools throughout his life. The necessities 
of the farm and home drove him to inventing means for getting 
things done. The result was that he soon became known as a 
genius, and this inventive work finally opened the way for his 
entrance into the University. So keen was John's desire to 
know and to invent that it became necessary for his father to 
drive him to bed too frequently, so he told the boy that if he 
wished to study, he should get up in the morning. John took 
his father at his word and managed to rise at two o'clock morn- 
ing after morning to work upon his inventions. As a result of 
such efforts there was made a model of self-setting saw mill, 
a thermometer, clocks, an apparatus to get him up at the time 
desired, and later at the University a machine to make visible 
the growth of plants and the action of sunlight, a barometer, 
and a desk which automatically threw up, from a rack under- 
neath, each book in the order of his studies during the day and 
withdrew it again when the time allotted for this study had ex- 
pired. To accompany this wonderful invention, he furnished 
his bed with an adjustment that set him on his feet at the 
morning rising hour and at the same instant lighted his lamp. 
These seemingly incredible inventions are fully explained in 
"The Story of My Boyhood and Youth," Houghton Mifflin Com- 
pany, 1913. So eagerly did he pursue knowledge for its own 
sake while he was in the University that the old janitor was 
proud to point out Muir's room to visitors many years after his 
departure. 

So valuable has been the work of this Investigating mind 
that Wisconsin, Harvard, and Yale Universities have deemed it 
a pleasure to confer upon John Muir honorary degrees. With 
his entire life devoted to research, he may truthfully be said to 



66 . WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

have been one of America's best educated men. 

He contributed extensively to tbe organization of scientific 
clubs and to scientific magazines. He was much interested in 
forest reservation and did much towards the plans which the 
government now employs. His work in connection with gov- 
ernment regulated parks has been invaluable. 

As a writer Muir is one of the most interestingly instructive 
we have had. His language is clear and lucid and he has a mes- 
sage which he carries directly to the heart and mind of his 
reader. Besides his many magazine articles he has written the 
"Mountains of California," 1894; "Our National Parks," 1901; 
"Stickeen, the Story of a Dog," 1909; "My First Summer in 
the Sierra," 1911; "The Yosemite," 1912, and the "Story of My 
Boyhood and Youth," 1913. This last is one of the most inter- 
esting and inspiring books for young people that we have 
today. 

The Muir homestead is twelve miles from Portage, Wiscon- 
sin. There were two farms, the Spring Fountain farm and the 
Hickory Hill farm. It is upon the latter that is found the well 
90 feet deep, eighty feet of which John chiselled through solid 
granite. 

To illustrate Muir's interesting manner of presenting his 
observations we are adding the following selections from "The 
Mountains of California," published by the Century Co. 

SNOW BANNERS 

Copyrighted by the Century Co., 1894. 

The most magnificent storm phenomenon I ever saw, 
surpassing in showy grandeur the most imposing effects 
of clouds, floods, or avalanches, was the peaks of the High 
Sierra, back of Yosemite Valley, decorated with snow- 
banners. Many of the starry snow-flowers, out of which 
these banners are made, fall before they are ripe, while 
most of those that do attain perfect development as six- 
rayed crystals glint and chafe against one another in their 
fall through the frosty air, and are broken into fragments. 
This dry, fragmentary snow is still further prepared for 
the formation of banners by the action of .the wind. For, 
instead of finding rest at once, like the snow which falls 
into the tranquil depths of the forests, it is rolled over and 
over, beaten against rock-ridges, and swirled in pits and 
hollows, like boulders, pebbles, and sand in the pot-holes 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 67 

of a river, until finally the delicate angles of the crystals 
are worn off, and the whole mass is reduced to dust. And 
whenever storm-winds find this prepared snow-dust in 
a loose condition on exposed slopes, where there is a free 
upward sweep to leeward, it is tossed back into the sky, 
and borne onward from peak to peak in the form of ban- 
ners or cloudy drifts, according to the velocity of the 
wind and the conformation of the slopes up or around 
which it is driven. While thus flying through the air, 
a small portion makes good its escape, and remains in the 
sky again as vapor. But far the greater part, after being 
driven into the sky again and again, is at length locked 
fast in bossy drifts, or in the wombs of glaciers, some of 
it to remain silent and rigid for centuries before it is 
finally melted and sent singing down the mountainsides 
to the sea. 

Yet, notwithstanding the abundance of winter snow- 
dust in the mountains, and the frequency of high winds, 
and the length of time the dust remains loose and exposed 
to their action, the occurrence of well-formed banners is, 
for causes we shall hereafter note, comparatively rare. 
I have seen only one display of this kifid that seemed in 
every way perfect. This was in the winter of 1873, when 
the snow-laden summits were swept by a wild ''norther." 
I happened at the time to be wintering in Yosemite Valley, 
that sublime Sierra temple Avhere every day one may see 
the grandest sights. Yet even here the wild gala-day of 
the north seemed surpassingly glorious. I was awakened 
in the morning by the rocking of my cabin and the beat- 
ing of pine-burs on the roof. Detached torrents and 
avalanches from the main wind-flood overhead were rush- 
ing wildly down the narrow side canyons, and over the 
precipitous walls, with loud resounding roar, rousing the 
pines to enthusiastic action, and making the whole valley 



68 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

vibrate as though it were an instrument being played. 

But afar on the lofty exposed peaks of the range 
standing so high in the sky, the storm was expressing 
itself in still grander characters, which I was soon to 
see in all their glory. I had long been anxious to study 
some points in the structure of the ice-cone that is formed 
every winter at the foot of the upper Yosemite fall, but 
blinding spray by which it is invested had hitherto pre- 
vented me from making a sufficiently near approach. 
This morning the entire body of the fall was torn into 
gauzy shreds, and blown horizontally along the face of 
the cliff, leaving the cone dry ; and while making my way 
to the top of an overlooking ledge to seize so favorable 
an opportunity to examine the interior of the cone, the 
peaks of the Merced group came in sight over the shoulder 
of the South Dome, each waving a resplendent banner 
against the blue sky, as regular in form, and as firm in 
texture, as if woven of fine silk. So rare and splendid 
a phenomenon, of course, overbore all other considera- 
tions, and I at once let the ice-cone go, and began to force 
my way out of the valley to some dome or ridge suf- 
ficiently lofty to command a general view of the main 
summits, feeling assured that I should find them bannered 
still more gloriously ; nor was I in the least disappointed. 
Indian Canon, through which I climbed, was choked with 
snow that had been shot down in avalanches from the 
high cliffs on either side, rendering the ascent difficult; 
but inspired by the roaring storm, the tedious wallowing 
brought no fatigue, and in four hours I gained the top 
of a ridge above the valley, 8,000 feet high. And there 
in bold relief, like a clear painting, appeared a most im- 
posing scene. Innumerable peaks, black and sharp, rose 
grandly into the dark blue sky, their bases set in solid 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 69 

white, their sides streaked and splashed with snow, like 
ocean rocks with foam; and from every summit, all free 
and unconfused, was streaming a beautiful, silky, silvery 
banner, from half a mile to a mile in length, slender 
at the point of attachment, then widening gradually as 
it extended from the peak until it was about 1,000 or 
1,500 feet in breadth, as near as I could estimate. The 
cluster of peaks called the ' ' Crown of the Sierra, ' ' at the 
head of the Merced and Tuolumne rivers, — Mounts Dana, 
Gibbs, Conness, Lyell, Maclure, Ritter, with their name- 
less compeers,- — each had its own refulgent banner, wav- 
ing with a clearly visible motion in the sun glow, and 
there was not a single cloud in the sky to mar their simple 
grandeur. Fancy yourself standing on this Yosemite 
ridge looking eastward. You notice a strange garish 
glitter in the air. The gale drives wildly overhead with 
a fierce, tempestuous roar, but its violence is not felt, 
for you are looking through a sheltered opening in the 
woods as through a window. There, in the immediate 
foreground of your picture, rises a majestic forest of 
silver fir blooming in eternal freshness, the foliage yellow- 
green, and the snow beneath the trees strewn with their 
beautiful plumes, plucked off by the wind. Beyond, and 
extending over all the middle ground, are somber swaths 
of pine, interrupted by huge swelling ridges and domes ; 
and just beyond the dark forest you see the monarchs of 
the High Sierra waving their magnificent banners. They 
are twenty miles away, but you would not wish them 
nearer, for every feature is distinct, and the whole glori- 
ous show is seen in its right proportions. After this gen- 
eral view, mark how sharply the dark, snowless ribs and 
buttresses and summits of the peaks are defined, except- 
ing the portions veiled by the banners, and how delicately 



70 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

their sides are streaked with snow, where it has come to 
rest in narrow flutings and gorges. Mark, too, how 
grandly the banners wave as the wind is deflected against 
their sides, and how trimly each is attached to the very 
summit of its peak, like a streamer at a masthead; how 
smooth and silky they are in texture, and how finely 
their fading fringes are penciled on the azure sky. See 
how dense and opaque they are at the point of attach- 
ment, and how filmy and translucent toward the end, 
so that the peaks back of them are seen dimly, as though 
you were looking through ground glass. Yet again, 
observe how some of the longest, belonging to the loftiest 
summits, stream perfectly free all the way across inter- 
vening notches and passes from peak to peak, while others 
overlap and partly hide each other. And consider how 
keenly every particle of this wondrous cloth of snow is 
flashing out jets of light. These are the main features of 
the beautiful and terrible picture as seen from the forest 
window ; and it would still be surpassingly glorious were 
the fore and middle grounds obliterated altogether, leav- 
ing only the black peaks, the white banners and the 
blue sky. 

Glancing now in a general way at the formation of 
snow-banners, we find that the main causes of the won- 
drous beauty and perfection of those we have been con- 
templating were the favorable direction and great force 
of the wind, the abundance of snow-dust, and the peculiar 
conformation of the slopes of the peaks. It is essential 
not only that the wind should move with great velocity 
and steadiness to supply a sufficiently copious and con- 
tinuous stream of snow dust, but that it should come from 
the north. No perfect banner is ever hung on the Sierra 
peaks by a south wind. Had the gale that day blown 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 71 

from the south, leaving other conditions unchanged, only 
a dull, confused, fog-like drift would have been pro- 
duced ; for the snow, instead of being spouted up over the 
tops of the peaks in concentrated currents to be drawn 
out as streamers, would have been shed off around the 
sides, and piled down into glacier wombs. The cause of 
the concentrated action of the north wind is found in the 
peculiar form of the north sides of the peaks, where the 
amphitheaters of the residual glaciers are. In general, 
the south sides are convex and irregular, while the north 
sides are concave both in their vertical and horizontal 
sections ; the wind in ascending these curves converges 
toward the summits, carrying the snow in concentrating 
currents with it, shooting it almost straight up into the 
air above the peaks, from which it is then carried away 
in a horizontal direction. 

This difference in form between the north and south 
sides of the peaks was almost wholly produced by the dif- 
ference in the kind and quantity of the glaciation to- 
which they have been subjected, the north sides having 
been hollowed by residual shadow-glaciers of a form that 
never existed on the sun-beaten sides. 

It appears, therefore, that shadows in a great part 
determine not only the forms of lofty icy mountains, but 
also those of the snow-banners that the wild winds hang 
on them. 



ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. 

"If you haven't what you like, try to like what you have." 

In this quotation is found the philosophy of life during 
many severe trials of one whose girlhood and early career as 
a writer were spent entirely within the confines of Wisconsin. 
Ella Wheeler was born at Johnstown Center, Wisconsin, some- 
time in the '50's, and the family moved to a farm near Madi- 
son when she was a year old. The discussion of her life given 
here is derived quite largely from her own statements in an 
article, "My Autobiography," published in the Cosmopolitan 
magazine for August, 1901. 

Mrs. Wheeler, Ella's mother, was a woman of some literary 
Inclinations and was very fond of reading. She loved not only 
the good society of books, but she longed also for the pleasures 
of the social life of a cultured community such as she had 
known in her Vermont home. Pioneer life was especially irk- 
some to her, and she found herself unable to meet patiently 
the many hardships that the change of fortune had brought 
her, and her attitude in the home was not always buoyant. 

Some time after the home was established in Wisconsin, 
there was born to these parents their fourth child, Ella, the fu- 
ture poetess. It may not be too much to say, since Mrs. Wil- 
cox seems to think it herself, that from the struggles of the 
father to meet the hardships that his new life brought him, 
may have sprung that bit of wholesome philosophy which 
stands at the head of this discussion. It is evident that she 
found many opportunities to test it to the utmost. From the 
suppressed literary desires of the mother may have come the 
intense longing of the daughter to achieve helpfulness through 
writing. 

Prom the standpoint of language training this home was 
far from limited, and Ella had opportunities here accorded to 
the minority of children even at the present time. She sayis: 
"My mother was a great reader of whatever came in her way, 
and was possessed of a wonderful memory. The elder children 
were excellent scholars, and a grammatical error was treated 
as a cardinal sin in the household." That Ella profited from 
this inheritance and training may be seen from the following 
statements. At school she found the composition exercises the 
most delightful of all her school duties. As early as eight she 
was excelling in the expression of her thoughts in essay form. 
By the age of fourteen she had become the neighborhood cel- 
ebrity because of her stories and her poetry. Naturally these 
pioneer people would criticise the mother for allowing Ella to 
scribble so much when she might have been doing household or 




ELLA WHEELER WILCOX 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 75 

farm tasks; but their criticism was silenced, and they learned 
to praise her efforts when they found that there was a market 
with the magazines and papers for Ella's "scribblings." 

At the age of fourteen Ella Wheeler's education, "excellent 
in grammar, spelling and reading, but wretched in mathe- 
matics," was completed so far as the rural school was con- 
cerned. Sometime later, through great sacrifice on the part 
of her people, she was placed for one term in the University 
of Wisconsin. Of this experience she says: "I was not at 
all happy there; first, because I knew the strain it put upon 
the home purse; second, because I felt the gulf between myself 
and the town girls, whose gowns and privileges revealed to me 
for the first time, the different classes in American social life; 
and third, because I wanted to write and did not want to 
study." Thus her school work ended and her acquisition of 
knowledge necessary to furnish details'for her emotional poems 
has been made through her individual study since the Univer- 
sity experience. 

Ella Wheeler's struggle to become a writer is one of the 
most inspiring stories among Wisconsin writers. A weekly 
paper came to the home and besides this there was an old red 
chest in their upstairs wherein there was kept the often-read 
copies of Arabian Nights, Gulliver's Travels, John Gilpin's 
Ride, and a few of Shakespeare's plays. In addition to these, 
friends had sent the family the New York Ledger and the New 
York Mercury. The serial stories of these papers furnished 
not only pleasing reading, but models of plots and of forms of 
expression which became the guide to her in the art of story 
writing. 

When Ella was thirteen years old the Mercury ceased to 
come to her home, and she regretted the loss of the stories so 
much that she determined to write something for the paper 
with the hope that the publisher would pay for her article 
through subscription. After some delay this brought the much 
coveted subscription and she says: "Perhaps the most trium- 
phant and dramatic hour of my life was when I set forth and 
announced to the family that my literary work had procured 
the coveted Mercury for our united enjoyment." 

This experience led her to write extensively for the maga- 
zines and papers, a list of M^hich a University friend had sent 
her. The articles which they accepted soon enabled her to 
supply the home with many periodicals and books and other 
articles of home use. She was not content with writing essays 
very long, but soon undertook the production of verse. Her 
first poem was rejected by the Mercury with some degree of 
scorn, but she soon offered it to other papers and so continued 
until she found a publisher. Very frequently some of her 
articles would be returned as many as nine times before she 
found a publisher. 

The Wheeler family were enthusiastic advocates of total 



76 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

abstinence, and Ella used her pen to advance this cause. Her 
first collection of poems into book form was entitled "Drops 
of Water." A poem with temperance as its theme is given 
as the first illustration of her efforts in the collection published 
here. 

Ella Wheeler's training tended to make her the lyric rather 
than the narrative poetess. She wrote largely of the emotion 
that played through her passing experiences. "Everything in 
life," she says, "was material for my own emotions, the remarks 
or experiences of my comrades and associates, sentences from 
books I read, and some phases of Nature." In general three 
things may be said to characterize these short poems and her 
own life as revealed by them, for her life itself is a poem. First, 
she is convinced that the supreme thing in life is love. In one 
poem she asserts that love is the need of the world. In another, 
"The Kingdom of Love," which is given later, she truthfully 
proclaims that love is the very essence of the home. 

The second characteristic is her spirit of buoyancy which 
has enabled her to surmount the many crushing deprivations 
and disappointments in her life. She was born with an un- 
quenchable hope and an unfaltering trust in God and guardian 
spirits. "I often wept myself to sleep after a day of disappoint- 
ment and worries," she says, "but woke in the morning singing 
aloud with the joy of life." It was such experiences as these 
that enabled her to say: 

"Laugh and the world laughs with you; 
Weep and you weep alone." 

Her faith in the better things to be is well expressed in the 
little poem, "The Tendril's Fate." Trials to her are frequently 
the means by which the soul's true worth is tested. This 
thought is expressed in the poem, "Three Friends." She bears 
trials not merely for her own sake, but for the sake of those 
about her. We are illustrating this quality with the poem 
"Ambition's Trail." Her faith that life has still much that is 
better than the present may be illustrated by her Morning 
Prayer. 

The third characteristic manifest in her poetry is that of the 
spirit of helpfulness that manifests itself in every new phase of 
life that she assumes. This attitude is illustrated with respect 
to mankind in general and also with respect to her own sex. 
The poems used are "I Am" and "Which Are You?" 

With love and helpfulness as the bond which unite man- 
kind, Mrs. Wilcox feels there is no place for strife and war- 
fare. She assails war and expresses her conviction that woman- 
kind shall have much to do with the final disarmament of 
nations. She believes implicitly in the mutual helpfulness of 
man and woman in solving the great problems of the world. 
Her own home life is one of constant happiness and of constant 
useful activity. When asked to express what life means to her 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 77 

she wrote an article for the Cosmopolitan which began thus: 
"Exhilaration, anticipation, realization, usefulness, growth — 
these things life has always meant and is meaning to me. 1 
expected much of life; it has given, in all ways, more than I 
expected. Love has been more loyal and lasting, friendship 
sweeter and more comprehensive, work more enjoyable, and 
fame, because of its aid to usefulness, more satisfying than 
early imagination pictured." Of one whose ideals of life are 
so high the state should be justly proud and its people should 
delight to hear her sing: 

"I know we are building our heaven 

As we journey along by the way; 

Each thought is a nail that is driven 

In structures that cannot decay, 

And the mansion at last shall be given 

To us as wei build it today." 
It was not until after her return from the University that 
Ella Wheeler discovered that her poems had a money value. 
She sent Frank Leslie's Publishing House three little poems 
written in one day. These were accepted and a check sent her 
for ten dollars. She now bent every effort towards making her 
literary efforts return subst9.ntial aid to herself and her family. 
It was all her own effort and the worth of her productions that 
brought her success, for she had no one to aid her in secur- 
ing publication. She sent her poems to various magazines, — 
a practise she still continues. During the years 1912 and 1913, 
she had poems and prose productions listed in the following 
periodicals: Current Literature, Everybody's, Good House- 
keeping, Ladies' Home Journal, Collier's Magazine, New Eng- 
land Magazine, The Bookman, Lippincott's, Forum, Cosmopoli- 
tan, Musician, Current Opinion, and Hearst's magazine. 

Mrs. Wilcox has attempted only one long narrative poem, 
"Maurine." In this she endeavors to set forth the doctrine of 
what she regards as the highest type of friendship. Her col- 
lections of poems bear the following titles: Drops of Water, 
Shells, Poems of Passion, Three Women, An Ambitious Man, 
Everyday, Thought in Prose and Verse, Poems of Pleasure, 
Kingdom of Love and Other Poems, An Erring Woman's Love, 
Men, Women and Emotions, The Beautiful Land of Nod, Poems 
of Power, The Heart of the New Thought, Sonnets of Abelard 
and Heloise, Poems of Experience, Yesterday, Poems of Prog- 
ress, Maurine, and Poems of Problems. 

Some time after a brief venture in editorial work, she was 
married, 1884, to Robert M. Wilcox, a business man of New 
York City. Their home life in the city and by the seashore 
at Granite Bay, Short Beach, Connecticut, has been most de- 
lightful to them. They have been able to travel extensively 
and In this manner to realize many of Mrs. Wilcox's early 
dreams. The following poems are from "The Kingdom of 
Love" and "Poems of Power." 



78 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

THE TWO GLASSES 

The following- poems of Mrs. Ella Wheeler Wilcox are reprinted 
here by permission of the publishers from her copyrighted 
books, of which W. B. Conkey Co., Chicago, are the exclusive 
American publishers. 

There sat two glasses filled to the brim, 

On a rich man's table, rim to rim. 

One was ruddy and red as blood. 

And one was clear as the crystal flood. 

Said the glass of wine to his paler brother: 

"Let us tell tales of the past to each other. 

I can tell of a banquet, and revel, and mirth. 

Where I was king, for I ruled in might; 

For the proudest and grandest souls on earth 

Fell under my touch, as though struck with blight. 

From the heads of kings I have torn the crown; 

From the heights of fame I have hurled men down. 

I have blasted many an honored name; 

I have taken virtue and given shame; 

I have tempted the youth with a sip, a taste. 

That has made his future a barren waste. 

Far greater than any king am I 

Or than any army beneath the sky. 

I have made the arm of the driver fail, 

And sent the train from the iron rail. 

I have made good ships go down at sea. 

And the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me. 

Fame, strength, wealth, genius before me fall; - 

And my might and power are over all! 

Ho, ho! pale brother," said the wine, 

"Can you boast of deeds as great as mine?" 

Said the water glass; "I can not boast 
. Of a king dethroned, or a murdered host. 
But I can tell of hearts that were sad 
By my crystal drops made bright and glad; 
Of thirst I have quenched, and brows I have laved; 
Of hands I have cooled, and souls I have saved. 
I have leaped through the valley, and dashed down the moun- 
tain, 
Slept in the sunshine and dripped from the fountain. 
I have burst my cloud-fetters, and dropped from the sky, 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 79 

And everywhere gladdened the prospects and eye; 

I have eased the hot forehead of fever and pain; 

I have made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain. 

I can tell of the powerful wheel of the mill. 

That ground out the flour, and turned at my will, 

I can tell of manhood debased by you. 

That I have uplifted and crowned anew. 

I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid; 

I gladden the hearts of man and maid; 

I set the wine-chained captive free, 

And all are better for knowing me." 

These are the tales they told each other. 
The glass of wine and its paler brother, 
As they sat together, filled to the brim. 
On a rich man's table rim to rim. 

THE KINGDOM OF IX)VE 

In the dawn of the day when the sea and the earth 

Reflected the sun-rise above, 

I set forth with a heart full of courage and mirth 

To seek for the Kingdom of Love. 

I asked of a poet I met on the way 

Which cross-road would lead me aright. 

And he said: "Follow me, and ere long you shall see 

Its glittering turrets of light." 

And soon in the distance the city shone fair. 

"Look yonder," he said; "how it gleams!" 

But alas! for the hopes that were doomed to despair, 

It was only the "Kingdom of Dreams." 

Then the next man I asked was a gay cavalier. 

And he said: "Follow me, follow me;" 

And with laughter and song we went speeding along 

By the shores of Life's beautiful sea. 

Then we came to a valley more tropical far 
Than the wonderful vale of Cashmere, 
And I saw from a bower a face like a flower 
Smile out on the gay cavalier. 



80 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

And he said: "We have come to humanity's goal: 
Here love and delight are intense." 
But alas and alas! for the hopes of my soul — 
It was only the "Kingdom of Sense." 

As I journeyed more slowly I met on the road 
A coach with retainers behind. 
And they said: "Follow me, for our lady's abode 
Belongs in that realm, you will find." 
'Twas a grand dame of fashion, a newly-made bride, 
I followed encouraged and bold; 

But my hopes died away like the last gleams of day, 
- For we came to the "Kingdom of Gold." 

At the door of a cottage I asked a fair maid. 

"I have heard of that realm," she replied; 

"But my feet never roam from the 'Kingdom of Home, 

So I know not the way," and she sighed. 

I looked on the cottage; how restful it seemed! 

And the maid was as fair as a dove. 

Great light glorified my soul as I cried: 

"Why, home is the 'Kingdom of Love.' " 



THE TENDRIL'S FATE 

Under the snow in the dark and the cold, 
A pale little sprout was humming; 
Sweetly it sang, 'neath the frozen mold. 
Of the beautiful days that were coming. 

"How foolish your songs," said a lump of clay, 
"What is there," it asked, "to prove them?" 
"Just look at the walls between you and the day. 
Now have you the strength to move them?" 

But under the ice and under the snow. 
The pale little sprout kept singing, 
"I cannot tell how, but I know, I know, 
I know what the days are bringing. 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 81 

"Birds and blossoms and buzzing bees, 
Blue, blue skies above me. 
Bloom on the meadows and buds on the trees. 
And the great glad sun to love me." 

A pebble spoke next. "You are quite absurd," 

It said, "with your songs' insistence; 

For I never saw a tree or a bird. 

So of course there are none in existence." 

"But I know, I know," the tendril cried 
In beautiful sweet unreason; 
Till lo! from its prison, glorified. 
It burst in the glad spring season. 

THBEE FRIENDS 

Of all the blessings which my life has known, 
I value most, and most praise God for three: 

Want, Loneliness, and Pain, those comrades true, 

Who masqueraded in the garb of foes 
For many a year, and filled my heart with dread. 
Yet fickle joy, like false, pretentious friends, 
Has proved less worthy than this trio. First, 

Want taught me labor, led me up the steep 
And toilsome paths to hills of pure delight. 
Trod only by the feet that know fatigue. 
And yet press on until the heights appear. 

Then Loneliness and hunger of the heart 
Sent me upreaching to the realms of space, 
Till all the silences grew eloquent. 
And all their loving forces hailed me friend. 

Last, Pain taught prayer! placed in my hand the staff 
Of close communion with the over-soul. 
That I might lean upon it to the end. 
And find myself made strong for any strife. 



82 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

And then these three who had pursued my steps 
Like stern, relentless foes, year after year. 
Unmasked, and turned their faces full on me. 
And lo! they were divinely beautiful, 
For through them shown the lustrous eyes of Love. 



AMBITION'S TRAIL 

If all the end of this continuous striving 

Were simply to attain. 

How poor would seem the planning and contriving, 

The endless urging and the hurried driving 

Of. body, heart and brain! 

But ever in the wake of true achieving. 

There shines this glowing trail — 

Some other soul will be spurred on, conceiving 

New strength and hope, in its own power believing. 

Because thou didst not fail. 

Not thine alone the glory, nor the sorrow, 

If thou dost miss the goal; 

Undreamed of lives in many a far to-morrow 

From thee their weakness or their force shall borrow — 

On, on! ambitious soul. 



MORNING PRAYER 

Let me today do something that shall take 

A little sadness from the world's vast store, 

And may I be so favored as to make 

Of joy's too scanty sum a little more. 

Let me not hurt, by any selfish deed 

Or thoughtless word, the heart of foe or friend; 

Nor would I pass, unseeing, worthy need. 

Or sin by silence when I should defend. 

However meagre be my worldly wealth 

Let me give something that shall aid my kind, 

A word of courage, or a thought of help, 

Dropped as I pass for troubled hearts to find. 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

Let me toniglit look back across the span 
'Twixt dawn and dark, and to my conscience say 
Because of some good act to beast or man — 
"The world is better that I lived today." 

I AM 

I know not whence I came, 

I know not whither I go; 

But the fact stands clear that I am here 

In this world of pleasure and woe. 

And out of the mist and murk 

Another truth shines plain: 

It is my power each day and hour 

To add to its joy or its pain. 

I know that the earth exists, 

It is none of my business why; 

I cannot find out what it's all about, 

I would but waste time to try. 

My life is a brief, brief thing, 

I am here for a little space. 

And while I stay I should like, if I may, 

To brighten and better the place. 

The trouble, I think, with us all 

Is the lack of a high conceit. 

If each man thought he was sent to this spot 

To make it a bit more sweet. 

How soon we could gladden the world, 

How easily right all wrong. 

If nobody shirked, and each one worked 

To help his fellows along. 

Cease wondering why you came — 
Stop looking for faults and flaws, 
Rise up today in your pride and say, 
"I am a part of the First Great Cause! 
However full the world, 
There is room for an earnest man. 
It had need of me or I would not be — 
I am here to strengthen the plan." 



84 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

WHICH ARE YOU? 

There are two kinds of people on earth today; 
Just two kinds of people, no more, I say. 

Not the sinner and saint, for 'tis well understood, 
The good are half bad, and the bad are half good. 

Not the rich and the poor, for to rate a man's wealth, 

You must first know the state of his conscience and health. 

Not the humble and proud, for in life's little span, 
Who puts on vain airs, is not counted a man. 

Not the happy and sad, for the swift flying years 
Bring each man his laughter and each man his tears. 

No; the kinds of people on earth I mean, 

Are the people who lift and the people who lean. 

Wherever you go, you will find the earth's masses 
Are always divided in just these two classes. 

And, oddly enough, you will find too, I ween. 
There's only one lifter to twenty who lean. 

In which class are you? Are you easing the load 
Of overtaxed lifters, who toil down the road? 

Or are you a leaner, who lets others share 
Your portion of labor, and worry and care. 



EAY STANNARD BAKER. 

(David Grayson.) 

Ray Stannard Baker was born in 1870 at Lansing, Michi- 
gan, and came to St. Croix Falls, Wisconsin, with his parents 
at the age of five. Here he spent his boyhood and youth. He 
returned to the Agricultural College of his native state for 
study, and received his degree from that institution, afterwards 
attending the University for a short time. He then went into 
business with his father at St. Croix Falls, but the desire to 
write was strong upon him, and he began his career of author- 
ship. During recent years his residence has been in Amherst, 
Massachusetts, but he visits Wisconsin every summer. He is 
one of the state's most voluminous writers. He has the habit 
of keen and sympathetic observation, and this quality, when 
conibined, as it has been in his case, with extensive and 
judicious travel and reading, usually results in a considerable 
literary output. Those of us who have read Mr. Baker's 
magazine articles and books feel that the writer has seen a 
great many things, — that he has seen them with his own eyes, 
and that he has seen them intelligently. Aside from the fact 
that nearly all of his works grow rather from observation of 
men and things than from a study of philosophy or meta- 
physics, Mr. Baker's range of interest has been exceedingly 
wide. Perhaps he is best known as a writer on social, political, 
and economic subjects, but the selections given here from "The 
Boys' Book of Inventions," (I and II), indicate a field of 
interest that is entirely apart from politics. 

The editors feel bound, in justice to Mr. Baker, to say that 
he feared that our readers would think that we had erred in 
choosing the accounts of inventions which have progressed so 
immeasurably since his articles were written. The editors, on 
the other hand, desired to do precisely the thing that Mr. 
Baker feared to have them do. They desire to show what a 
keen, well-trained observer saw in these inventions, which now 
play so vital a part in our lives, when the inventions were 
new. Further, it is our desire that the name of Professor 
Langley, of Washington, D, C, should be properly honored In 
connection with the advance of the science of aviation. Indeed, 
but recently, when tried by an experienced aviator, his machine 
flew successfully. Professor Langley died as an indirect result 
of his untiring, unselfish, and heroic efforts in this then new 



86 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

cause. In spite of ridicule and contempt, in spite of lack of 
support, lie went courageously ahead; and it is right that the 
boys of Wisconsin should know that a young man of their state 
has given due credit in his book to this heroic soul. 



THROUGH THE AIR 

From "THE BOYS' BOOK OF INVENTIONS," Chapter IX, by Ray 
Stannard Baker. Copyrig-ht, 1899, by Doubleday, Page & Co. 

Probably no American inventor of flying machines is 
better known or has been more successful in his experi- 
ments than Professor S. P. Langley, the distinguished sec- 
retary of the Smithsonian Institution at Washington. Pro- 
fessor Langley has built a machine with wings, driven by 
a steam-engine, and wholly without gas or other lifting 
power beyond its own internal energy. And this ma- 
chine, to which has been given the name Aerodrome (air- 
runner), actually flies for considerable distances.. So 
successful were Professor Langley 's early tests, that the 
United States Government recently made a considerable 
appropriation to enable him to carry forward his ex- 
periments in the hope of finally securing a practical flying 
machine. His work is, therefore, the most significant and 
important of any now before the public (1899). 

The invention of the aerodrome was the result of long 
years of persevering and exacting labor, with so many 
disappointments and set-backs that one cannot help ad- 
miring the astonishing patience which kept hope alive 
to the end. Early in his experiments, Professor Langley 
had proved positively, by mathematical calculations, that 
a machine could be made to fly, provided its structure 
were light enough and the actuating poAver great enough. 
Therefore, he was not in pursuit of a mere will-o'-the- 
wisp. It was a mechanical difflculty which he had to sur- 
mount, and he surmounted it. 




RAT STANNARD BAKER 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 89 

Professor Langley made his first experiments more 
than twelve years ago at Allegheny, Pennsylvania. * * * 
Professor Langley formed the general conclusion that by 
simply moving any given weight in plate form fast enough 
in a horizontal path through the air it was possible to 
sustain it with very little power. It was proved that, if 
horizontal flight without friction could be insured, 200 
pounds of plates could be moved through the air and 
sustained upon it at the speed of an express train, with 
the expenditure of only one horse-power, and that, of 
course, without using any gas to lighten the weight. 

Every boy who has skated knows that when the ice 
is very thin he must skate rapidly, else he may break 
through. In the same way, a stone may be skipped over 
the water for considerable distances. If it stops in any 
one place it sinks instantly. In exactly the same way, 
the plate of brass, if left in any one place in the air, would 
instantly drop to the earth ; but if driven swiftly forward 
in a horizontal direction it rests only an instant in any 
particular place, and the air under it at any single moment 
does not have time to give way, so to speak, before it 
has passed over a new area of air. In fact. Professor 
Langley came to the conclusion that flight was theoreti- 
cally possible with engines he could then build, since he 
was satisfied that engines could be constructed to weigh 
less than twenty pounds to the horse-power, and that one 
horse-power would support two hundred pounds if the 
flight was horizontal. 

That was the beginning of the aerodrome. Professor 
Langley had worked out its theory, and now came the 
much more difficult task of building a machine in which 
theory should take form in fact. In the first place, there 
was the vast problem of getting an engine light enough 



90 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

to do the work. A few years ago an engine that developed 
one horse-power weighed nearly as much as an actual 
horse. Professor Langley wished to make one weighing 
only twenty pounds, a feat never before accomplished. 
And then, having made his engine, how was he to apply 
the power to obtain horizontal speed? Should it be by 
flapping wings like a bird, or by a screw propeller like 
a ship? This question led him into a close study of the 
bird compared with the man. He found how wonderfully 
the two were alike in bony formation, how curiously the 
skeleton of a bird's wing was like a man's arm, and yet 
he finally decided that flapping wings would not make 
the best propeller for his machine. Men have not adopted 
machinery legs for swift locomotion, although legs are 
nature's models, but they have, rather, constructed 
wheels — contrivances which practically do not exist in 
nature. Therefore, while Professor Langley admits that 
successful flying machines may one day be made with 
flapping wings, he began his experiments with the screw 
propeller. 

There were three great problems in building the flying 
machine. First, an engine and boilers light enough and 
at the same time of sufficient power. Second, a structure 
which should be rigid and very light. Third, the enor- 
mously difficult problem of properly balancing the ma- 
chine, which. Professor Langley says, took years to 
solve. * * * 

Professor Langley established an experimental sta- 
tion in the Potomac Eiver, some miles below Washington. 
An old scow was obtained, and a platform about twenty 
feet high was built on top of it. To this spot, in 1893, 
the machine was taken, and here failure followed failure ; 
the machine would not fly properly, and yet every failure, 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 91 

costly as it might be in time and money, brought some 
additional experience. Professor Langley found out that 
the aerodrome must begin to fly against the wind, just 
in the opposite way from a ship. He found that he must 
get up full speed in his engine before the machine was 
allowed to go, in the same way that a soaring bird must 
make an initial run on the ground before it can mount 
into the air, and this was, for various reasons, a difficult 
problem. And then there was the balancing. 

"If the reader will look at the hawk or any soaring 
bird," says Professor Langley, ''he will see that as it 
sails through the air without flapping the wing, there 
are hardly two consecutive seconds of its flight in which 
it is not swaying a little from side to side, lifting one 
wing or the other, or turning in a way that suggests an 
acrobat on a tight-rope, only that the bird uses its widely 
outstretched wings in place of the pole." 

It must be remembered that air currents, unlike the 
Gulf Stream, do not flow steadily in one direction. They 
are forever changing and shifting, now fast, now slow, 
with something of the commotion and restlessness of the 
rapids below Niagara. 

All of these things Professor Langley had to meet as 
a part of the difficult balancing problem, and it is hardly 
surprising that nearly three years passed before the ma- 
chine was actually made to fly — on March 6, 1896. 

"I had journeyed, perhaps for the twentieth time," 
says Professor Langley, "to the distant river station, and 
recommenced the weary routine of another launch, with 
very moderate expectation indeed; and when, on that, 
to me, memorable afternoon the signal was given and 
the aerodrome sprang into the air, I watched it from the 
shore with hardly a hope that the long series of accidents 



92 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

had come to a close. And yet it had, and for the first 
time the aerodrome swept continuously through the air 
like a living thing, and as second after second passed on 
the face of the stop-watch, until a minute had gone by, 
and it still flew on, and as I heard the cheering of the 
few spectators, I felt that something had been accom- 
plished at last; for never in any part of the world, or in 
any period, had any machine of man's construction sus- 
tained itself in the air before for even half of this brief 
time. Still the aerodrome went on in a rising course until, 
at the end of a minute and a half (for which time only it 
was provided with fuel and water), it had accomplished 
a little over half a mile, and now it settled, rather than 
fell, into the river, with a gentle descent. It was im- 
mediately taken out and flown again with equal success, 
nor was there anything to indicate that it might not have 
flown indefinitely, except for the limit put upon it. ' ' 



MARCONI AND HIS GREAT ACHIEVEMENTS — NEW 
EXPERIMENTS IN WIREI/ESS TELEGRAPHY 

From "SECOND BOOK OF INVENTIONS," Chapter VII, by Ray 
Stannard Baker. Copyright. 1903, by Doubleday, Page & Co. 

At noon on Thursday (December 12, 1901), Marconi 
sat waiting, a telephone receiver at his ear, in a room of 
the old barracks on Signal Hill. To him it must have 
been a moment of painful stress and expectation. Ar- 
ranged on the table before him, all its parts within easy 
reach of his hand, was the delicate receiving instrument, 
the supreme product of years of the inventor's life, now 
to be submitted to a decisive test. A wire ran out througn 
the window, thence to a pole, thence upward to the kite 
which could be seen swaying high overhead. It was a 
bluff, raw day; at the base of the cliff 300 feet below 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 93 

thundered a cold sea; oceanward through the mist rose 
dimly the rude outlines of Cape Spear, the easternmost 
reach of the North American Continent. Beyond that 
rolled the unbroken ocean, nearly 2,000 miles to the coast 
of the British Isles. Across the harbor the city of 
St. John's lay on its hillside wrapped in fog; no one 
had taken enough interest in the experiments to come 
up here through the snow to Signal Hill. Even the 
ubiquitous reporter was absent. In Cabot Tower, near at 
hand, the old signalman stood looking out to sea, watching 
for ships, and little dreaming of the mysterious messages 
coming that way from England. Standing on that bleak 
hill and gazing out over the waste of water to the east- 
ward, one finds it difficult indeed to realize that this 
wonder could have become a reality. The faith of the 
inventor in his creation, in the kite-wire, and in the in- 
struments which had grown under his hand, was un- 
shaken. 

"I believed from the first," he told me, "that I would 
be successful in getting signals across the Atlantic." 

Only two persons were present that Thursday after- 
noon in the room where the instruments were set up — 
Mr. Marconi and Mr. Kemp. Everything had been done 
that could be done. The receiving apparatus was of 
unusual sensitiveness, so that it would catch even the 
faintest evidence of the signals. A telephone receiver, 
which is no part of the ordinary instrument, had been 
supplied, so that the slightest clicking of the dots might 
be conveyed to the inventor's ear. For nearly half an 
hour not a sound broke the silence of the room. Then 
quite suddenly Mr. Kemp heard the sharp click of the 
tapper as it struck against the coherer; this, of course, 
was not the signal, yet it was an indication that some- 



94 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

thing was coming. The inventor's face showed no evi- 
dence of excitement. Presently he said: 
' ' See if you can hear anything, Kemp. ' ' 
Mr. Kemp took the receiver, and a moment later, 
faintly and yet distinctly and unmistakably, came three 
little clicks — the dots of the letter S, tapped out an in- 
stant before in England. At ten minutes past one, 
more signals came, and both Mr. Marconi and Mr. Kemp 
assured themselves again and again that there could be 
no mistake. During this time the kite gyrated so wildly 
in the air that the receiving wire was not maintained at 
the same height, as it should have been; but again, at 
twenty minutes after two, other repetitions of the signal 
were received. Thus the problem was solved. One of the 
great wonders of science had been wrought. 

THE ROPING AT PASCO'S 

By Ray Stannard Baker, McClure's Magazine, Vol. XIX, p. 152. 

Copyright, 1902, by S. S. McClure Company. 

* * * Little groups of people were drifting by to 
the grand stand. Here and there, from the corner of his 
eye, as he bent to adjust the saddle-cinches, Turk McG-lory 
caught the glint of a white skirt or of a flowing ribbon. 
Sometimes the girls stopped to discuss the contestants; 
he heard them talking of Bud Oliver, and Mason, and 
Buster Graham. Suddenly, as he tightened a latigo strap, 
a saucy, smiling face looked up at him. Her sister was 
evidently trying to pull her away, but she said, half 
teasingly : 

"I'm wearing your colors, Mr. Texas. You must 
win." 

He saw nothing but deep black eyes, and he felt the 
blood in his face. He couldn't have spoken if he had 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 9§ 

known that it was to save his life, and he knew that he 
was smiling foolishly. 

***** 

"We're betting on you, Bud Oliver," came other 
shouts. The Texas men were not over-popular in Arizona, 
and yet it was a sportsmanlike crowd. 

The babel of voices ceased sharply. A wiry little 
steer, red and white, shot into the field as if catapulted. 
Turk McGlory observed how like an antelope it ran — 
long-legged and as easily as the wind blows. The flag 
fell, and Bud was off; the judges riding after him were 
blurred in his dust. There was no roper like Bud. He 
waited long before raising his rope, bending close to his 
saddle and riding hard ; then in what curious, loose, slow 
coils he swung it ! Would he ride clean over his steer ? 
There ! he had reached out as if to catch the steer by the 
tail, and the rope had gone over his head like a hoop, 
horns and all. Now he was paying out to trip up the 
steer. How they were running! Turk McGlory rose 
suddenly in his saddle. 

"Look out for the fence," he roared. 

But Bud had seen it, too, and the little roan squatted 
like a rabbit. The steer, reaching the rope's end, doubled 
up and fell — but fell against the fence. There had not 
been quite room enough. Bud was off saddle, and the 
little roan, knowing well what was going on, walked away 
like a man, pulling hard on the rope to keep the steer 
down. If it had been a larger steer or a fatter one, there 
would have been no trouble ; but this one fought like a 
cat, now on its knees, now on its feet. Bud seized it by 
the tail, and with a single fierce toss he laid it flat, then 
he tied — and arms up. Turk McG-lory waited with hands 
clenched to hear the time. 



96 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

"Fifty seconds." 

So Bud was beaten by a second, and beaten because 
he didn't have a fair field. How the crowd howled for 
the Arizona champion. Bud came up smiling and uncon- 
cerned. 

''Now, McGlory," he said, ''you must make a showing 
for Texas." 

"What am I offered on Turk McGlory against the 
field?" shouted the pool-seller. "Now's your last 
chance. ' ' 

"Hurrah for the kid from Texas!" shouted other 
voices. 

Turk McGlory was at the line, astonished to find him- 
self coiling his rope with so much ease. He felt that he 
wasn't doing it himself, but that some one else was 
working in him. The sun blazed hot on the field, but 
everything seemed dim and indistinct. To him all the 
voices kept shouting : 

"Turk McGlory, Turk McGlory, Turk McGlory." 

"Hurrah for Texas and the calico horse," came a 
shout from the grand stand. 

"Wait till they see you run, Pinto," Turk said be- 
tween his teeth, and the pinto stirred nervously under 
him. 

"Ready," called Turk McGlory, though not in Turk 
McGlory 's voice. He gave one glance behind him. The 
gi and stand was a picture of a girl in blue and white ; she 
was the picture, all the rest was frame. 

There was a clatter at the pen, and the steer shot past 
him. Instantly he saw all its points — ^horns, legs, tail — 
and they spoke to him with the meaning of familiarity. 
So might the old knight have looked for the points of 
his adversary's armour. Now that he was off, Turk's 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 97 

head cleared to his work. The steer ran with hind feet 
swinging sideways, hog-like. He remembered a steer in 
the Lazy A outfit that had the same habit, and a bad one it 
was, too. How strange that he should think of such 
things at such a time! The steer was swerving swiftly 
to the left. The pinto, nose forward and dilating, in- 
stantly slackened pace, swerving in the same direction 
and cutting off distance. It was much to have a horse, 
pinto though he be, that knew his business. Turk's rope 
began to swing, but he was wholly unconscious of it. He 
seemed now to see only the legless body of a steer swim- 
ming on a billow of dust. The fence ! He saw it with a 
throb, and he was yet too far off to throw. And there 
was the grand stand above it, the men rising, half in 
terror, and a color of women. The steer had swung 
almost round. It was a low rail fence, and between it and 
the grand stand lay the racing track. Dimly McGlory 
heard shouts of warning. Would the steer plunge into 
the stand? Dimly, too, glancing back, he saw the other 
cow-men charging after him to the rescue. There was a 
crash ; the steer had gone through the fence as if it were 
pasteboard, and the pinto was now close behind. There 
was all too little room here in the track. The steer would 
evidently plunge full into the crowd. Turk McGlory 's 
arm shot forward and the rope sped. The pinto sat 
sharply back, throwing McGlory well over the pommel. 
To those in the grand stand it seemed as if the steer, 
all horns and eyes, was plucked out of their faces. When 
they looked again, McGlory was tying, and the judges 
and the other punchers were swarming through the gap 
in the fence. Hands up ; and the pinto easing away on 
the rope ! It was all lost, McGlory felt. The fence had 
been in the way. Why couldn't they provide an open 



98 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

field, as in Texas? These Arizona men couldn't conduct 
a contest. The timer lifted his hand, and the shouting 
stopped. 

"Thirty-sis seconds," he announced. 

"What a fool of a timer," thought Turk McGlory. 
"It can't be so." 

Then he saw Bud Oliver stride up with outstretched 
hand, and a lump came in his throat. 

"Good boy!" said Bud. "You've saved the day for 
Texas." 

And then the crowd pounced on him and hooted and 
shouted, "McGlory! McGlory!" until he was dizzy with 
it all. It was not as he thought it would be. Two hun- 
dred dollars won ! And he, Turk McGlory ! 

And then a saucy, flushed face looking up at him. 

"I knew you would do it, Mr. Texas," she said. 

And with that she pinned a blue and white ribbon on 
his vest, and he looked off over her head, and trembled. 



'DAVID GRAYSON." 

Surprised as many of our readers will no doubt be to 
find how wide has been the field of interest covered by Mr. 
Baker under his own name, the surprise of most of them will 
be still keener when they know that the delightful pastoral 
sketches in prose which have appeared in our magazines from 
time to time under the name of "David Grayson," are all writ- 
ten by this same young son of Wisconsin. Who would have 
thought that the author of "Adventures in Contentment, "Ad- 
ventures in Friendship," "The Friendly Road," and the novel 
called "Hempfleld," was the same as the frequently truculent 
writer of social and political exposures? 

One likes Mr. Baker better knowing this fact. One sees 
that his interests and ideals are wide, tolerant, and kindly. The 
editors of this book are proud to be among the first to intro- 
duce David Grayson and Ray Stannard Baker publicly as one 
and the same man. Mr. Baker has also written under the 
pen name of Sturgis B. Rand. 

AN ARGUMENT WITH A MBLIilONAIRE 

From "ADVENTURES IN CONTENTMENT," Chapter VII, by David 
Grayson. Doubleday, Page & Co. 

An Argument With a Millionaire. 

"Let the mighty and great 

Roll in splendour and state, 

I envy them not, I declare it. 

I eat my own lamb. 

My own chicken and ham, 

I shear my own sheep and wear it. 

I have lawns, I have bowers, 
I have fruits, I have flowers. 
The lark is my morning charmer; 
So you jolly dogs now, 
Here's God bless the plow — 
Long life and content to the farmer." 
— Rhyme on an old pitcher of English pottery. 



100 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

I have been hearing of John Starkweather ever since 
I came here. He is a most important personage in this 
community. He is rich. Horace especially loves to talk 
about him. Give Horace half a chance, whether the sub- 
ject be pigs or churches, and he will break in somewhere 
with the remark: "As I was saying to Mr. Starkweather 
— " or, "Mr. Starkweather says to me — " How we love 
to shine by reflected glory! Even Harriet has not gone 
by unscathed; she, too, has been affected by the bacillus 
of admiration. She has wanted to know several times 
if I saw John Starkweather drive by : " The finest span 
of horses in this country, ' ' she says, and ' ' did you see his 
daughter?" Much other information concerning the 
Starkweather household, culinary and otherwise, is cur- 
rent among our hills. "We know accurately the number 
of Mr. Starkweather's bedrooms, we can tell how much 
coal he uses in winter and how many tons of ice in sum- 
mer, and upon such important premises we argue his 
riches. 

Several times I have passed John Starkweather's 
home. It lies between my farm and the town, though 
not on the direct road, and it is really beautiful with the 
groomed and guided beauty possible to wealth. A 
stately old house with a huge end chimney of red bricks 
stands with dignity well back from the road; round about 
lie pleasant lawns that once were cornfields; and there 
are drives and walks and exotic shrubs. At first, loving 
my own hills so well, I was puzzled to understand why I 
should also enjoy Starkweather's groomed surroundings. 
But it came to me that after all, much as we may love 
wildness, we are not wild, nor our works. What more 
artificial than a house, or a barn, or a fence? And the 
greater and more formal the house, the more formal in^ 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 101 

deed must be the nearer natural environments. Perhaps 
the hand of man might well have been less evident in de- 
veloping the surroundings of the Starkweather home — for 
art, dealing with nature, is so often too accomplished ! 

But I enjoy the Starkweather place and as I look in 
from the road, I sometimes think to myself with satisfac- 
tion: ''Here is this rich man who has paid his thousands 
to make the beauty which I pass and take for nothing — 
and having taken, leave as much behind." And I wonder 
sometimes whether he, inside his fences, gets more joy 
of it than I, who walk the roads outside. Anyway, I am 
grateful to him for using his riches so much to my ad- 
vantage. 

On fine mornings John Starkweather sometimes comes 
out in his slippers, bare-headed, his white vest gleaming 
in the sunshine, and walks slowly around his garden. 
Charles Baxter says that on these occasions he is asking 
his gardener the names of the vegetables. However that 
may be, he has seemed to our community the very incar- 
nation of contentment and prosperity — his position the 
acme of desirability. 

What was my astonishment, then, the other morning 
to see John Starkweather coming down the pasture lane 
through my farm. I knew him afar off, though I had never 
met him. May I express the inexpressible when I say he 
had a rich look ; he walked rich, there was richness in the 
confident crook of his elbow, and in the positive twitch of 
the stick he carried: a man accustomed to having doors 
opened before he knocked. I stood there a moment and 
looked up the hill at him, and I felt that profound curi- 
osity which every one of us feels every day of his life 
to know something of the inner impulses which stir his 
nearest neighbor. I should have liked to know John 



102 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

Starkweather ; but I thought to myself as I have thought 
so many times how surely one comes finally to imitate his 
surroundings. A farmer grows to be a part of his farm; 
the sawdust on his coat is not the most distinctive in- 
signia of the carpenter; the poet writes his truest lines 
upon his own countenance. People passing in my road 
take me to be a part of this natural scene. I suppose 
I seem to them as a partridge squatting among dry 
grasses and leaves, so like the grass and leaves as to be 
invisible. We all come to be marked upon by nature 
and dismissed — how carelessly! — as genera or species. 
And is it not the primal struggle of man to escape classifi- 
cation, to form new differentiations? 

Sometimes — I confess it — when I see one passing in 
my road, I feel like hailing him and saying : 

''Friend, I am not all farmer. I, too, am a person, I 
am different and curious. I am full of red blood, I like 
people, all sorts of people; if you are not interested in 
me, at least I am intensely interested in you. Come over 
now and let's talk!" 

So we are all of us calling and calling across the in- 
calculable gulfs which separate us even from our nearest 
friends ! 

Once or twice this feeling has been so real to me that 
I've been near to the point of hailing utter strangers — 
only to be instantly overcome with a sense of the humor- 
ous absurdity of such an enterprise. So I laugh it off and 
I say to myself : 

"Steady now : the man is going to town to sell a pig ; 
he is coming back with ten pounds of sugar, five of salt 
pork, a can of coffee and some new blades for his mowing 
machine. He hasn't time for talk" — and so I come down 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 103 

with a bump to my digging, or hoeing, or chopping, or 
whatever it is. 

Here I've left John Starkweather in my pasture while 
I remark to the extent of a page or two that I didn't 
expect him to see me when he went by. 

I assumed that he was out for a walk, perhaps to en- 
liven a worn appetite (do you know, confidentially, I've 
had some pleasure in times past in reflecting upon the 
jaded appetites of millionaires!), and that he would pass 
out by my lane to the country road; but, instead of that, 
what should he do but climb the yard fence and walk over 
toward the barn where I was at work. 

Perhaps I was not consumed with excitement : here 
was fresh adventure ! 

''A farmer," I said to myself with exultation, ''has 
only to wait long enough and all the world comes his 
way." 

I had just begun to grease my farm wagon and was 
experiencing some difficulty in lifting and steadying the 
heavy reg^r axle while I took off the wheel. I kept busily 
at work, pretending (such is the perversity of the human 
mind) that I did not see Mr. Starkweather. He stood for 
a moment watching me ; then he said : 

"Good morning, sir." 

I looked up and said: ''Oh, good morning!" 

'.'Nice little farm you have here." 

"It's enough for me," I replied. I did not especially 
like the "little." One is human. 

Then I had an absurd inspiration : he stood there so 
trim and jaunty and prosperous. So rich ! I had a good 
look at him. He was dressed in a woolen jacket coat,, 
knee-trousers and leggings ; on his head he wore a jaunty, 
cocky little Scotch cap; a man, I should judge, about 



n04 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

fifty years old, well-fed and hearty in appearance, with 
grayish hair and a good-humored eye. I acted on my 
inspiration : 

''You've arrived," I said, "at the psychological 
moment. ' ' 

"How's that?" 

' ' Take hold here and help me lift this axle and steady 
it. I 'm having a hard time of it. " 

The look of astonishment in his countenance was 
beautiful to see. 

For a moment failure stared me in the face. His ex- 
pression said with emphasis: "Perhaps you don't know 
who I am. ' ' But I looked at him with the greatest good 
feeling and my expression said, or I meant it to say : "To 
be sure I don't: and what difference does it make, any- 
way ! " 

"You take hold here," I said, without waiting for 
him to catch his breath, "and I'll get hold here. To- 
gether we can easily get the wheel off. ' ' 

Without a word he set his cane against the barn and 
bent his back; up came the axle and I propped it with a 
board. 

"Now," I said, "you hang on there and steady it 
while I get the wheel off" — though, indeed, it didn't 
really need much steadying. 

As I straightened up, whom should I see but Harriet 
standing stock still in the pathway half way down to the 
barn, transfixed with horror. She had recognized John 
Starkweather and had heard at least part of what I said 
to him, and the vision of that important man bending his 
back to help lift the axle of my old wagon was too ter- 
rible! She caught my eye and pointed and mouthed. 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 105 

When I smiled and nodded, John Starkweather straight- 
ened up and looked around. 

"Don't, on your life," I warned, "let go of that 
axle." 

He held on and Harriet turned and retreated inglo- 
riously. John Starkweather 's face was a study ! 

"Did you ever grease a wagon?" I asked him 
genially. 

"Never," he said. 

"There's more of an art in it than you think," I said, 
and, as I worked, I talked to him of the lore of axle- 
grease and showed him exactly how to put it on — neither 
too much nor too little, and so that it would distribute 
itself evenly when the wheel was replaced. 

"There's a right way of doing everything," I ob- 
served. 

"That's so," said John Starkweather, "if I could 
only get workmen that believed it." 

By that time I could see that he was beginning to be 
interested. I put back the wheel, gave it a light turn 
and screwed on the nut. He helped me with the other 
end of the axle with all good humor. 

"Perhaps," I said, as engagingly as I knew how, 
"you'd like to try the art yourself? You take the grease 
this time and I'll steady the wagon." 

"All right," he said, laughing, "I'm in for any- 
thing. ' ' 

He took the grease box and the paddle — less gingerly 
than I thought he would. 

"Is that right?" he demanded, and so he put on the 
grease. And oh, it was good to see Harriet in the door- 
way! 



106 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

' ' Steady there, ' ' I said, ' ' not so much at the end ; now 
put the box down on the reach." 

And so together we greased the wagon, talking all the 
time in the friendliest way. I actually believe that he 
was having a pretty good time. At least it had the virtue 
of unexpectedness. He wasn't bored! 

"When he had finished, we both straightened our backs 
and looked at each other. There was a twinkle in his 
eye; then we both laughed. ''He's all right," I said to 
myself. I held up my hands, then he held up his ; it was 
hardly necessary to prove that wagon-greasing was not a 
delicate operation. 

"It's a good, wholesome sign," I said, "but it'll come 
off. Do you happen to remember a story of Tolstoi's 
called, 'Ivan the Fool?' " 

("What is a farmer doing quoting Tolstoi!" remarked 
his countenance — though he said not a word.) 

"In the kingdom of Ivan, you remember," I said, it 
was the rule that whoever had hard places on his hands 
came to table, but whoever had not must eat what the 
others left." 

Thus I led him up the back steps and poured him a 
basin of hot water — which I brought myself from the 
kitchen, Harriet having marvelously and completely dis- 
appeared. We both washed our hands, talking with great 
good humor. 

When we had finished I said: "Sit down, friend, if 
you've time, and let's talk." 

So he sat down on one of the logs of my woodpile : a 
solid sort of man, rather warm after his recent activities. 
He looked me over with some interest and, I thought, 
friendliness. 

"Why does a man like you," he asked finally, "waste 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 107 

himself on a little farm back here in the country?" 

For a single instant I came nearer to being angry 
than I have been for a long time. Waste myself ! So we 
are judged without knowledge. I had a sudden impulse 
to demolish him (if I could) with the nearest sarcasms 
I could lay hand to. He was so sure of himself! ''Oh, 
well," I thought, with vainglorious superiority, ''he 
doesn't know." So I said: 

"What would you have me be — a millionaire?" 

He smiled, but with a sort of sincerity. 

"You might be," he said; "who can tell!" 

I laughed outright; the humor of it struck me as de- 
licious. Here I had been, ever since I first heard of John 
Starkweather, rather gloating over him as a poor suffer- 
ing millionaire (of course millionaires are unhappy), and 
there he sat, ruddy of face and hearty of body, pitying 
me for a poor unfortunate farmer back here in the 
country! Curious, this human nature of ours, isn't it? 
But how infinitely beguiling! 

So I sat down beside Mr. Starkweather on the log 
and crossed my legs. I felt as though I had set foot in a 
new country. 

"Would you really advise me," I asked, "to start in 
to be a millionaire?" 

He chuckled: "Well, that's one way of putting it. 
Hitch your wagon to a star; but begin by making a few 
dollars more a year than you spend. When I began — '^ 

He stopped short with an amused smile, remembering 
that I did not know who he was. 

"Of course," I said, "I understand that." 

"A man must begin small" — he was on pleasant 
ground — "and anywhere he likes, a few dollars here, a 
few there. He must work hard, he must save, he must be 



108 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

both bold and cautious. I know a man who began when 
he was about your age with total assets of ten dollars and 
a good digestion. He's now considered a fairly wealthy 
man. He has a home in the city, a place in the country, 
and he goes to Europe when he likes. He has so arranged 
his affairs that young men do most of the work and he 
draws the dividends — and all in a little more than 
twenty years. I made every single cent — but, as I said, 
it's a penny business to start with. The point is, I like 
to see young men ambitious." 

"Ambitious," I asked, '"'for what?" 

''Why, to rise in the world; to get ahead." 

"I know you'll pardon me," I said, ''for appearing to 
cross-examine you, but I'm tremendously interested in 
these" things. What do you mean by rising? And who 
am I to get ahead of?" 

He looked at me in astonishment, and with evident 
impatience at my consummate stupidity. 

"I am serious," I said. "I really want to make the 
best I can of my life. It's the only one I've got." 

"See here," he said, "let us say you clear up five 
hundred a year from this farm—" 

"You exaggerate — " I interrupted. 

"Do I?" he laughed; "that makes my case all the 
better. Now, isn't it possible to rise from that? Couldn't 
you make a thousand or five thousand or even fifty 
thousand a year?" 

It seems an unanswerable argument: fifty thousand 
dollars ! 

"I suppose I might," I said, "but do you think I'd 
be any better off or happier with fifty thousand a year 
than I am now? You see, I like all these surroundings 
better than any other place I ever knew. That old green 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 109 

Tiill over there with the oak on it is an intimate friend 
•of mine. I have a good corn-field in which every year 
I work miracles. I've a cow and a horse and a few pigs. 
I have a comfortable home. My appetite is perfect, and 
I have plenty of food to gratify it. I sleep every night 
like a boy, for I haven't a trouble in this world to dis- 
turb me. I enjoy the mornings here in the country ; and 
the evenings are pleasant. Some of my neighbors have 
come to be my good friends. I like them and I am pretty 
.sure they like me. Inside the house there I have the best 
books ever written and I have time in the evenings to 
read them — I mean really read them. Now the question 
is, would I be any better off, or any happier, if I had 
fifty thousand a year?" 

John Starkweather laughed. 

''Well, sir," he said, "I see I've made the acquaint- 
ance of a philosopher." 

"Let us say," I continued, "that you are willing to 
invest twenty years of your life in a million dollars." 
("Merely an illustration," said John Starkweather.) 
"You have it where you can put it in the bank and take 
it out again, or you can give it form in houses, yachts, 
and other things. Now twenty years of my life — to me — > 
is worth more than a million dollars. I simply can't 
afford to sell it for that. I prefer to invest it, as some- 
body or other has said, unearned in life. I've always 
had a liking for intangible properties." 

"See here," said John Starkweather, "you are taking 
a narrow view of life. You are making your own pleasure 
the only standard. Shouldn't a man make the most of 
the talents given him ? Hasn 't he a duty to society ? ' ' 

"Now you are shifting your ground," I said, "from 
the question of personal satisfaction to that of duty. 



110 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

That concerns me, too. Let me ask you: Isn't it im- 
portant to society that this piece of earth be plowed and 
cultivated?" 

"Yes, but—" 

"Isn't it honest and useful work?" 

"Of course." 

"Isn't it important that it shall not only be done, but 
well done?" 

' ' Certainly. ' ' 

"It takes all there is in a good man," I said, "to be 
a good farmer." 

"But the point is," he argued, "might not the same 
faculties applied to other things yield better and bigger 
results?" 

"That is a problem, of course," I said. "I tried 
money-making once — in a city — and I was unsuccessful 
and unhappy; here I am both successful and happy, I 
suppose I was one of the young men who did the work 
while some millionaire drew the dividends." (I was 
cutting close, and I didn't venture to look at him.) "No 
doubt he had his houses and yachts and went to Europe 
when he liked. I know I lived upstairs — back — where 
there wasn't a tree to be seen, or a spear of green grass, 
or a hill, or a brook; only smoke and chimneys and lit- 
tered roofs. Lord be thanked for my escape ! Some- 
times I think that Success has formed a silent conspiracy 
against Youth. Success holds up a single glittering 
apple and bids Youth strip and run for it; and Youth 
runs and Success still holds the apple." 

John Starkweather said nothing. 

"Yes," I said, "there are duties. We realize, we 
farmers, that we must produce more than we ourselves 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 111 

can eat or wear, or burn. We realize that we are the 
foundation; we connect human life with the earth. We 
dig and plant and produce, and, having eaten at the first 
table ourselves, we pass what is left to the bakers and 
millionaires. Did you ever think, stranger, that most of 
the wars of the world have been fought for the control of 
this farmer's second table? Have you thought that the 
surplus of wheat and corn and cotton is what the rail- 
roads are struggling to carry? Upon our surplus run all 
the factories and mills ; a little of it gathered in cash 
makes a millionaire. But we farmers, we sit back com- 
fortably after dinner, and joke with our wives and play 
with our babies, and let the rest of you fight for the 
crumbs that fall from our abundant tables. If once we 
really cared and got up and shook ourselves, and said to 
the maid: 'Here, child, don't waste the crusts; gather 
'em up and tomorrow we'll have a cottage pudding,' 
where in the world would all the millionaires be?" 

Oh, I tell you, I waxed eloquent. I couldn't let John 
Starkweather, or any other man, get away with the con- 
viction that a millionaire is better than a 'farmer. ''More- 
over," I said, "think of the position of the millionaire. 
He spends his time playing not with life, but with the 
symbols of life, whether cash or houses. Any day the 
symbols may change ; a little war may happen along, 
there may be a defective flue or a western breeze, or even 
a panic because the farmers aren't scattering as many 
crumbs as usual (they call it crop failure, but I've noticed 
that the farmers still continue to have plenty to eat) and 
then what happens to your millionaire? Not knowing 
how to produce anything himself, he would starve to 
death if there were not always, somewhere, a farmer to 
take him up to the table.'* 



112 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

''You're making a strong case," laughed John Stark- 
weather, 

''Strong!" I said. "It is simply wonderful what a 
leverage upon society a few acres of land, a cow, a pig or 
two, and a span of horses gives a man. I'm ridiculously 
independent. I'd be the hardest sort of a man to dis- 
lodge or crush. I tell you, my friend, a farmer is like an 
oak, his roots strike deep in the soil, he draws a suffi- 
ciency of food from the earth itself, he breathes the free 
air around him, his thirst is quenched by heaven itself — 
and there's no tax on sunshine." 

I paused for very lack of breath. John Starkweather 
was laughing. 

"When you commiserate me, therefore" ("I'm sure 
I shall never do it again," said John Starkweather), 
when you commiserate me, therefore, and advise me to 
rise, you must give me really good reasons for changing 
my occupation and becoming a millionaire. You must 
prove to me that I can be more independent, more honest,, 
more useful as a millionaire, and that I shall have better 
and truer friends ! ' * 

John Starkweather looked around at me (I knew I had 
been absurdly eager and I was rather ashamed of myself) 
and put his hand on my knee (he has a wonderfully fine 
eye!). 

"I don't believe," he said, "you'd have any truer 
friends. ' ' 

"Anyway," I said repentantly, "I'll admit that mil- 
lionaires have their place — at present I wouldn't do en- 
tirely away with them, though I do think they'd enjoy 
farming better. And if I were to select a millionaire for 
all the best things I know, I should certainly choose you, 
Mr. Starkweather." 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 113 

He jumped up. 

**You know who I am?" he asked. 

I nodded. 

"And you knew all the time?" 

I nodded. 

"Well, you're a good one!" 

We both laughed and fell to talking with the greatest 
friendliness. I led him down my garden to show him 
my prize pie-plant, of which I am enormously proud, and 
I pulled for him some of the finest stalks I could find. 

"Take it home," I said, "it makes the best pies of any 
pie-plant in this country." 

He took it under his arm. 

"I want you to come over and see me the first chance 
you get," he said. "I'm going to prove to you by phys- 
ical demonstration that it's better sport to be a million- 
aire than a farmer — ^not that I am a millionaire; I'm only 
accepting the reputation you give me." 

So I walked with him down to the lane. 

"Let me know when you grease up again," he said, 
"and I'll come over." 

So we shook hands; and he set off sturdily down the 
road with the pie-plant leaves waving cheerfully over his 
shoulder. 



ZONA GALE. 

Among the various types of literature, the short story has 
become very popular in recent years. Numerous writers are 
fond of the principles involved in its construction, and are 
developing this form beyond many others. The short story is 
not new, for it has been developed in many lands throughout 
the past centuries. However, there has been a marked revival 
in its production recently and Wisconsin writers have been 
interested in developing this type. Among these we have al- 
ready noticed Hamlin Garland. There will be several others 
mentioned in these selections, among whom the subject of this 
sketch is one of the most notable. 

Zona Gale, who has made her imaginative "Friendship Vil- 
lage" one of the real places in Wisconsin life, was born at 
Portage, Wisconsin, August 26, 1874. This city continues to 
be her home; and the study of its home life, its school life, its 
social, industrial, and religious life has afforded her the basis 
for generalizing upon what is true of the life of our time. Her 
characters are not necessarily Portage people, for they are 
Wisconsin people and people of other states as well. However, 
Portage and its life has furnished her many interesting start- 
ing points for her comments upon life in general. She has 
attempted to repay her community for this material furnished 
her by becoming an integral part of its community life. In its 
civic improvements, in its home life, in its schools and in its 
churches, she has had her work and has aspired to do her best 
towards making her home city beautiful and wholesome. 

Zona Gale remembers much of the play life and the school 
life in her home town during the eighties and early nineties 
of the last century. She has recently set forth her idealized 
remembrance of these early experiences in her book entitled 
"When I Was a Little Girl." One of these is chosen as an illus- 
tration of her work. 

Besides the school training afforded her by Portage, Zona 
Gale attended Wayland Academy at Beaver Dam, Wisconsin, 
and later she entered the University of Wisconsin, from which 
institution she received the Bachelor of Literature degree in 
189 5, and four years later the Master's degree. 

After graduation Miss Gale was employed for a time on 
staffs of Milwaukee and New York papers. Since 1904 she has 
devoted herself to writing for magazines. She spends some 
time in New York and the East, but most of her work is done 




ZONA GALE 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 117 

at her beautiful home, which overlooks the Wisconsin river at 
Portage. 

Miss Gale writes an occasional poem for some magazine. 
We give "The Holy Place," published in the Bookman some 
years ago, as an illustration of her poetry. However, it is not 
as a poet, but rather as a short story writer that we are remem- 
bering Zona Gale. 

Miss Gale's stories have appeared in the Atlantic, Apple- 
ton's, the Cosmopolitan, Everybody's, the Outlook, the Book- 
man, and other magazines. Her first arrangement of stories in 
book form, "Romance Island," appeared in 1906. A year later 
she published "The Loves of Pelleas and Etarre." The two 
characters mentioned are an old couple of seventy or more, 
who, under the protecting care of an old servant, Nichola, live 
a sort of child life. Their pranks, if such they may be called, 
are the kindly deeds of making others happy. The stories pur- 
port to be told by Etarre, who would have us believe that 
there is quite as much romance in the lives of two old people 
busily engaged in breaking the rules of the crabbed old nurse 
as there is in the lives of much younger people. They are con- 
stantly on the alert for the romance in the lives of those about 
them, and it would seem that no love match in their neighbor- 
hood could be a success without their assistance. The spirit 
that pervades the book is that of thoughtful helpfulness. 

We are sure to lay aside these stories with the wish that 
the kindly spirit and the rich enjoyment of Pelleas and Etarre 
might be true for all old people. We wish every aged couple 
might stand at the window at Christmas time and send such 
telegrams of bequest as these which they send to the world: 

"And from my spirit to yours I bequeath the hard-won 
knowledge that you must be true from the beginning. But if 
by any chance you have not been so, then you must be true 
from the moment you know." 

To this sentiment of Pelleas shall Etarre reply: "From my 
spirit to your spirit, I bequeath some understanding of the 
preciousness of love, and the need to keep it true." 

Stories must happen somewhere, and the capital of Zona 
Gale's character world is "Friendship Village." Here occur 
the loves of her youthful romances, the gossips of the older 
worldly wise. Here her clubs originate and accomplish their 
tasks. In this village occur the struggles for social and indus- 
trial reform in which Zona Gale is so much interested, and 
here, too, takes place all that great conflict for civic righteous- 
ness which brings "Friendship Village" slowly nearer the goal 
of perfection as she understands it. "Friendship Village" is 
probably located nowhere, but still Miss Gale has been so suc- 
cessful in Meriting about it that we are most sure it is our town, 
and some one has suggested that another good name for this 
place would be "Our Home Town." 

Two of Miss Gale's books derive their titles from this vil- 



118 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

lage of hers. They are "Friendship Village" and "Friendship 
Village Love Stories." A short description of her "Friend- 
ship Village" will follow later. Another book based upon the 
village life deals with the lesson of Christmas time. It shows 
how the older people who have come to feel that they could 
not afford the expense of Christmas are brought to realize the 
real significance of Christmas giving. 

Another series of stories is linked into book form through 
the narrator, Calliope Marsh. It is entitled "Mothers to Men," 
and is an account of life at "Friendship Village." 

Miss Gale writes beautiful stories of how to make the bet- 
ter community; but what is more, she does with her own hands 
many things which bring about the realization of her plans. 
Women's club of her own city and of many other cities enjoy 
her aid in their plans for better conditions. Civic federations 
of statewide influence have her help as member and officer. 
Further, her own county fair has enjoyed her presence and her 
efforts to advance civic improvement through her friendly coun- 
sel to those who pause to talk with her. 

Her writing is here illustrated in part from her recent 
book, "When I Was a Little Girl." Two of the little girls of 
the neighborhood had been shut up in their rooms one fine 
summer day as punishment for the infraction of some home 
regulation, whereupon a discussion among the free playmates 
arose as to the reason for punishment. As the discussion waxed 
perplexing, the little girls happened upon Grandmother Beers, 
who took up the discussion and enlightened the children. What 
she had heard of their conversation caused her to break in 
with the statement, "Wicked? I didn't know you knew such 
a word." The following discussion then takes place: 



WHY? 

From "WHEN I WAS A LITTLE GIRL." Copyright, 1913, by the 
Macmillan Co. 

''It's a word you learn at Sunday School," I explained 
importantly. 

"Come over here and tell me about it," she invited, 
and led the way to the Eating Apple tree. And she sat 
down in the swing ! Of course, whatever difference of 
condition exists between your grandmother and yourself 
vanishes when she sits down casually in your swing. 

Well, Grandmother Beers was one who knew hoAV to 
play with us, and I was always half expecting her to 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 119 

propose a new game. But that day, as she sat in the 
swing, her eyes were not twinkling at the corners. 

''What does it mean?" she asked us. ''What does 
wicked mean?" 

"It's what you aren't to be." 

I took the brunt of the reply, because I was the rela- 
tive of the questioner. 

"Why not?" asked grandmother. 

"Why not?" Oh, we all knew that. We responded 
instantly, and out came the results of the training of all 
the families. 

"Because your Mother and your Father say you 
can't," said Betty Rodman. 

"Because it makes your mother feel bad," said 
Calista. 

"Because God don't want us to," said I. 

"Delie says," Betty added, "it's because, if you are, 
when you grow up people won't think anything of you." 

Grandmother Beers held her sweet-peas to her face. 

"If," she said, after a moment, "you wanted to do 
something wicked more than you ever wanted to do any- 
thing in the world — as much as you'd want a drink to- 
morrow if you hadn't had one to-day — and if nobody 
ever knew — would any of those reasons keep you from 
doing it?" 

We consulted one another's look, and shifted. We 
knew how thirsty that would be. Already we were 
thirsty, in thinking about it. 

"If I were in your place," grandmother said, "I'm 
not sure those reasons would keep me. I rather think 
they wouldn 't — always. ' ' 

We stared at her. It was true that they didn't 



120 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

always keep us. Were not two of us "in our rooms" 
even now? 

Grandmother leaned forward — I know how the 
shadows of the apple leaves fell on her black laee cap 
and how the pink sweet-peas were reflected in her delicate 
face. 

"Suppose," she said, "that instead of any of those 
reasons somebody gave you this reason: That the earth 
is a great flower — a flower that has never really blos- 
somed yet. And that, when it blossoms, life is going to 
be more beautiful than we have ever dreamed, or than 
fairy stories have ever pretended. And suppose our do- 
ing one way, and not another, makes the flower come a 
little nearer to blossom. But our doing the other way 
puts back the time when it can blossom. Then which 
would you want to do ? " 

"Oh, make it grow, make it grow," we all cried; and I 
felt a secret relief: Grandmother was playing a game 
with us, after all. 

"And suppose that everything made a difference to 
it," she went on, "every little thing — from telling a lie, 
on down to going to get a drink for somebody and drink- 
ing first yourself out in the kitchen. Suppose that every- 
thing made a difference, from hurting somebody on pur- 
pose, down to making up the bed and pulling the bed- 
spread tight so that the wrinkles in the blanket won't 
show." 

At this we looked at one another in some consterna- 
tion. How did grandmother know. 

"Until after awhile," she said, "you should find out 
that everything — loving, going to school, playing, work- 
ing, bathing, sleeping, were all just to make this flower 
grow. Wouldn't it be fun to help?" 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 121 

''Yes, Oh, yes." We were all agreed about that. It 
would be great fun to help. 

''Well, then suppose," said grandmother, "that as 
you helped, you found out something else : that in each 
of you, say, where your heart is, or where your breath is, 
there was a flower trying to blossom through ! And that 
only as you help the earth flower to blossom could your 
flower blossom. And that your doing one way would 
make your flower droop its head and grow dark and 
shrivel up. But your doing the other way would make 
it grow, and turn beautiful colors — so that, bye and bye, 
every one of your bodies would be just a sheath for this 
flower. Which way then would you rather do ? " 

"Oh, make it grow, make it grow," we said again. 

And Mary Elizabeth added longingly: "Wouldn't it 
be fun if it was true?" 

"It is true," said G-randmother Beers. 

She sat there, softly smiling over her pink sweet-peas. 
We looked at her silently. Then I remembered that her 
face had always seemed to me to be somehow light within. 
May be it was her flower showing through ! 

"Grandmother!" I cried, "is it true — is it true?" 

"It is true," she repeated. "And whether the earth 
flower and other people's flowers and your flower are to 
bloom or not is what living is about. And everything 
makes a difference. Isn't that a good reason for not being 
wicked?" 

We all looked up in her face, something in us leaping 
and answering to what she said. And I know that we 
understood. 

"Oh," Mary Elizabeth whispered presently to Betty, 
"hurry home and tell Margaret Amelia. It'll make it so 
much easier when she comes out to her supper." 



122 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

That night, on the porch, alone with Mother and 
Father, I inquired into something that still was not clear. 

"But how can you tell which things are wicked? And 
which ones are wrong and which things are right?" 

Father put out his hand and touched my hand. He 
was looking at me with a look that I knew — and his 
smile for me is like no other smile that I have ever 
known. 

''Something will tell you," he said, "always." 

"Always?" I doubted. 

"Always," he said. "There will be other voices. But 
if you listen, something will tell you always. And it is 
all you need." 

I looked at Mother. And by her nod and her quiet 
look I perceived that all this had been known about for 
a long time. 

"That is why Grandma Bard is coming to live with 
us," she said, "not just because we wanted her, but 
because — that said so." 

In us all a flower — and something saying something! 
And the earth flower trying to blossom ... I looked 
down the street : at Mr. Branehett walking in his garden, 
at the light shining from windows, at the folk sauntering 
on the sidewalk, and toward town where the band was 
playing. We all knew about this together then. This 
was why everything was! And there were years and 
years to make it come through. 

"What if I, alone among them all, had never found out. 

THE HOIiY PliACE 

A.t silver of gray lines; at look of lace 

About a woman's throat; at little feet, 

Curled close in hand that clings; at stir of sweet 

Old gardens; at the flow and dip and grace 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 123 

Of sweeping fabric; at the phantom race of snadow ripples in 

the tides of wheat, 
Where great, still spirits murmur as they meet- 
Souls see Their God as in a holy place. 
What of the wrinkled face, the poor, coarse hands. 
Dead leaves and ruined walls in fields that stand, 
Rattling sharp husks? Of little feet that stray 
From clinging hands, and never find the way? 
He knows no holy place for whom the clod 
Stands not an altar to the living God. 

FRIENDSHIP VILLAGE 

Published by Permission of The Macmillan Co., New Tork. 

We are one long street, rambling from sun to sun, 
inheriting traits of the parent country road which we 
unite. And we are cross streets, members of the same 
family, properly imitative, proving our ancestorship in a 
primeval genius for trees, or bursting out in inexplicable 
weaknesses of Court-House, Engine-House, Town Hall, 
and Telephone Office. Ultimately our stock dwindled out 
in a slaughter-house and a few detached houses of milk 
men. The cemetery is delicately put behind them, under 
a hill. There is nothing mediaeval in all this, one would 
say. But then see how we wear our rue : 

When one of us telephones, she will scrupulously ask 
for the number, for it says so at the top of every page. 
"Give me 1-1," she will put it, with an impersonality as 
fine as if she were calling for four figures. And central 
will answer: 

"Well, I just saw Mis' Holcomb go 'crost the street. 
I'll call you, if you want, when she comes back." 

Or, "I don't think you better ring the Helman's just 
now. They were awake 'most all night with one o' Mis' 
Helman's attacks," 



124 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

Or, "Doctor June's invited to Mis' Syke's for tea. 
Shall I give him to you there?" 

The telephone is modern enough. But in our use of it, 
is there not a flavor as of an Elder Time, to be caught by 
Them of Many Years from Now? And already we may 
catch this flavor, as our Britain great-great-lady grand- 
mothers, and more, may have been conscious of the old 
fashion of sitting in bowers. If only they were conscious 
like that ! To be sure of it would be to touch their hands 
in the margin of the ballad books. 

Or we telephone to the Livery Barn and Boarding 
Stable for the little blacks, celebrated for their self- 
control in encounters with the Proudfits' motor car. The 
stable-boy answers that the little blacks are at ''the 
funeral. ' ' And after he has gone off to ask his employer, 
who in his unofficial moments is our neighbor, our church 
choir bass, our landlord even, comes and tells us that, 
after all, we may have the little blacks, and he himself 
brings them round at once — the same little blacks that 
we meant all along. And when, quite naturally, we 
wonder at the boy's version, we learn: "Oh, why, the 
blacks was standin' just acrost the street, waitin' at the 
church door, hitched to the hearse. I took 'em out an' 
put in the bays. I says to" myself: 'The corpse won't 
care.' " Some way the Proudfits' car and the stable 
telephone must themselves have slipped from modernity 
to old fashioned before that incident shall quite come 
into its own. 

So it is with certain of our domestic ways. For ex- 
ample, Mis' Postmaster Sykes— in Friendship Village 
every woman assumes for given name the employment of 
her husband — has some fine modern china and much solid 
silver in extremely good taste, so much, indeed, that she 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 125 

is wont to confess to having cleaned forty, or sixty, or 
seventy-five pieces — "seventy-five pieces of solid silver 
have I cleaned this morning. You can say what you want 
to, nice things are a rill care." Yet, surely this is the 
proper conjunction, Mis' Sykes is currently reported to 
rise in the night preceding the day of her house cleaning, 
and to take her carpets out in the back yard, and there 
softly to sweep and sweep them so that, at their official 
cleaning next day, the neighbors may witness how little 
dirt is whipped out on the line. Ought she not to have 
old-fashioned silver and egg-shell china and drop-leaf 
mahogany to fit the practice instead of dazzling and 
wild-rose patterns in ' ' solid and art curtains, and mission 
chairs and a white-enameled refrigerator, and a gas 
range?" 

We have the latest funeral equipment — black broad- 
cloth-covered supports, a coffin carriage for up-and-down 
the aisles, natural palms to order, and the pulleys to ' ' Let 
them down slow ' ' ; and yet our individual funeral capacity 
has been such that we can tell what every woman who 
has died in Friendship for years has "done without": 
Mis ' Grocer Stew, her of all folks, has done without new- 
style flat-irons; Mis' Worth had used the bread pan to 
wash dishes in; Mis' Jeweler Sprague — the first Mis' 
Sprague — had had only six bread and butter knives, her, 
that could get wholesale, too . . . and we have little 
maid-servants who answer our bells in caps and trays, so 
to say ; but this savour of jestership is authentic, for any 
one of them is likely to do as of late did Mis' Holcomb — 
that was Mame Bliss's maid — answer at dinner-with- 
guests, that there were no more mashed potatoes, "or 
else, there won't be any left to warm up for your break- 
fast" . . . And though we have our daily newspaper. 



126 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

receiving Associated Press service, yet, as Mis' Amandy 
Toplady observed, it is "only very lately that they have 
mentioned in the Daily the birth of a child, or any thing 
that had anything of a tang to it." 

We put new wine in old bottles, but also we use new 
bottles to hold our old wine. For, consider the name of 
our main street : is this Main or Clark or Cook or Grand 
Street, according to the register of the main streets of 
town? Instead, for its half-mile of village life, the Plank 
Road, macadamized and arc-lighted, is called Daphne 
Street. Daphne Street ! I love to wonder why. Did our 
dear Doctor June's father name it when he set the five 
hundred elms and oaks which glorify us ? Or did Daphne 
herself take this way on the day of her flight, so that 
when they came to draught the town, they recognized 
that it was Daphne Street, and so were spared the trouble 
of naming it? Or did the Future anonymously toss us 
back the suggestion, thinking of some day of her own 
when she might remember us and say, ' ' Daphne Street ! ' ' 
Already some of us smile with a secret nod at something 
when we direct a stranger, "You will find the Telegraph 
and Cable Office two blocks down, on Daphne Street." 
"The Commercial Travelers' House, the Abigail Arnold 
Home Bakery, the Post Office and Armory are in the same 
block on Daphne Street." Or, "The Electric Light Office 
is at the corner of Dunn and Daphne. " It is not wonder- 
ful that Daphne herself, at seeing these things, did not 
stay, but lifted her laurels somewhat nearer Tempe — 
although there are those of us who like to fancy that she is 
here all the time in our Daphne-Street magic : the fire bell, 
the tulip beds, and the twilight bonfires. For how else, 
in all reason, has the name persisted? 

Of late a new doctor has appeared — one may say, has 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 127 

abounded : a surgeon who, sueli is his zeal, will almost 
perform an operation over the telephone and, we have 
come somewhat cynically to believe, would prefer doing 
so to not operating at all. 

***** 

Thus the New shoulders the Old, and our transition is 
still swift enough to be a spectacle, as was its earlier 
phase which gave our Middle West to cabins and plough 
horses, with a tendency away from wigwams and bob- 
whites. And in this local warfare between Old and New 
a chief figure is Calliope Marsh. She is a little rosy, 
wrinkled creature officially — though no other than offi- 
cially — pertaining to sixty years; mender of lace, seller 
of extracts, and music teacher, but of the three she thinks 
of the last as her true vocation. 

***** 

With us all the friendship idea prevails : we accept 
what Progress sends, but we regard it in our own fashion. 
Our improvements, like our entertainments, our funerals, 
our holidays, and our very loves, are but Friendship- 
Village exponents of the modern spirit. Perhaps, in a 
tenderer significance than she meant. Calliope character- 
ized us when she said: 

"This town is more like a back door than a front — or, 
givin' it full credit, anyhow — it's no more'n a side door, 
with no vines." 



128 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 



EBEN EUGENE REXFORD. 

The subject of this sketch has lived in Wisconsin since the 
seventh year of his life. He was born at Johnsburgh, New 
York, on September 16, 1848. With his parents he removed to 
Wisconsin, where he came to love the products of the soil and 
the processes by which they might be made more and more 
beautiful. Not merely plant growth has been of interest to 
him; the development of Wisconsin institutions also, especially 
its schools, has been of the most vital concern to him. Few 
men have been more deeply interested in the schools of any 
community than has Mr. Rexford in the schools of his village, 
and few have more effectively encouraged the teaching of 
agricultural facts in the schools than he. 

Mr. Rexford's life has been spent quite largely at his coun- 
try home near Shiocton, where he has found much of the ma- 
terial for the line of writing in which he has been especially 
interested. The country home has furnished him with oppor- 
tunities for pleasurable development of which few have even 
dreamed. His career is worth studying, if for no other reason 
than to disprove the thought that rural life is a life of toil and 
hardship devoid of the privilege of acquiring that finer sense 
for the beautiful. Mr. Rexford's life has been rich in the com- 
panionship of people and of animals and plants. This last has 
given that training which makes him an authority along the 
line of floriculture. 

Mr. Rexford received his training beyond the rural schools 
at Lawrence College, Appleton, where he pursued the college 
course until his senior year. When he had gone thus far in 
his course, the care of his home demanded his attention; and, 
characteristic of the man, he sacrificed his own personal inter- 
ests for the greater good he might do. The city of Appleton 
and its institutions, especially its college and its churches, still 
possess strong bonds of interest for him. The college, in turn, 
is justly proud of his attainments and conferred upon him the 
degree of Doctor of Literature in 1908. 

After his school career, Mr. Rexford took up his work at 
his country home near Shiocton, where he has been actively 
associated with all phases of the development of community 
life. Good roads found a strong advocate in him; the introduc- 
tion and development of farm machinery and farm improve- 
ments have found him a leader. For school programs and for 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 131 

church exercises he has contributed much in providing music, 
or in directing the musical part of the program. 

Early in life Mr. Rexford conceived the notion of sharing 
his best thoughts with his fellows through expressing them for 
publication, and it is said that he has been a contributor to the 
press since the age of fourteen. He has written extensively for 
a large number of magazines. The Ladies' Home Journal and 
Outing have published more of his articles, perhaps, than any 
other magazines. These magazine contributions comprise 
poems and articles upon gardening, flower culture, and the 
making of the country home. While the articles show exten- 
sive scientific knowledge, they are so written as to be easily 
comprehended by the ordinary reader. 

The various articles have been collected into book form and 
the following discussions upon the garden and its plants were 
listed in the 1912 catalogs: Flowers, How to Grow Them; 
Four Seasons in the Garden; Home Floriculture; Home Gar- 
den; Indoor Gardening. These discussions are made up largely 
of Mr. Rexford's own experience in doing the things he writes 
about. From among the flowers in his living room or the 
plants in his garden you can easily imagine him in his quiet, 
neighborly way telling you the things that will aid you in suc- 
cessfully raising flowers or vegetables. We are closely drawn 
to him, for there is no show about what he does, but that 
simple kindliness of one who desires to help. 

While extracts from books of the type above listed would 
not generally form good selections for reading, yet so different 
is the style of composition of Mr. Rexford that we feel that a 
few illustrations here will be of great interest as showing the 
qualities above mentioned. The flrst two selections are taken 
from his "Home Floriculture," a book published by the Orange 
Judd Company, and will illustrate Mr. Rexford's intense inter- 
est in his plants as well as his simple style in telling us the 
things of help to us. 



WATERING PLANTS 

Printed by permission of Orange, Judd Co. 

Some persons water their plants every day, without 
regard to the season, and give about the same quantity 
one day that they do another. The natural result is that 
in winter their plants are weak and spindling, with yellow 
leaves, and few, if any, flowers. The owner will tell you 
that she "don't see what ails her plants." She is sure 
she gives them all the water they need, and she "never 



132 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

forgets to do this." If she were to forget to do this 
occasionally it would be a great deal better for the plants. 
In summer the evaporation of moisture from the soil is 
rapid, because of warmth and wind, but in winter this 
goes on slowly, and the amount of water given should be 
regulated by the ability of the soil to dispose of it. Where 
too much is given, as has been said in the chapter on 
planting, the soil is reduced to a condition of muddiness, 
unless good drainage has been provided, and those who 
give too much water generally neglect this item. 

Another woman will give water in little driblets, 
"whenever she happens to think of it." The result is 
that her plants are chronic sufferers from the lack of 
moisture at the roots. The wonder is that they contrive 
to exist. Turn them out of their pots and you will gener- 
ally find that the upper portion of the soil is moist, and 
in this what few foots there are have spread themselves, 
while below it, the soil is almost as dry as dust, and no 
root could live there. Plants grown under these condi- 
tions are almost always dwarf and sickly specimens, with 
but few leaves and most of these yellow ones. You will 
find that plants grown under either condition are much 
more subject to attacks of insects than healthy plants are. 

There is only one rule to be governed in watering 
plants that I have a knowledge of and that is this: 
Never apply water to any plant until the surface of the 
soil looks dry. When you do give water, give enough of 
it to thoroughly saturate the soil. If some runs through 
at the bottom of the pot, you can be sure that the whole 
ball of earth is moist. 

I follow this rule with good results. "Of course, like 
all other rules, it has exceptions. For instance, a calla, 
being a sort of aquatic plant, requires very much more 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 133 

water than a geranium. A cactus, being a native of hot, 
dry climates, requires but very little. The florist who is 
interested in his plants will study their habits, in order to 
understand the requirements of each, and will soon be 
able to treat them intelligently. He will soon be able to 
tell at a glance when a plant requires more water. He 
will know what kinds to give a good deal to, and what 
kinds to water sparingly. Until he has acquired this 
ability it is well for him to adhere to the rule given 
above, for if he follows it, he cannot go very far wrong in 
either direction. Let the water used be of about the 
same temperature as that of the room in which the plants 
are. I am often asked which is best, hard or soft water. 
I have tried both and see little difference. 

Many persons fail to attain success with plants in 
baskets and window boxes. Ninety-nine times out of a 
hundred, the failure is due to lack of water. A basket is 
exposed to dry air on all sides, and is suspended near the 
ceiling, as a general thing, where the air is much warmer 
than below; consequently the evaporation takes place 
more rapidly than from the pot on the window sill. Be- 
cause it is somewhat difficult to get at, water is not given 
as often as required, and then generally in smaller quanti- 
ties than is needed. The first thing you know, your plants 
are turning yellow, and dropping their leaves, and soon 
they are in such a condition that you throw them away 
in disgust, and conclude that you haven't ''the knack of 
growing good basket plants. All the trouble comes from 
an insufficient water supply. 

There are two methods by which you may make it 
easier to attend to the needs of the plants. One is, to 
have the baskets suspended by long cords running over 
pulleys, by which you can lower them into a tub of water, 



134 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

where they can be left until they are thoroughly soaked 
through. The other is this : Take a tin can and punch a 
hole through the bottom of it. Let this hole be large 
enough to allow the water to escape, drop by drop. Set 
this on top of your basket and arrange the foliage to 
cover it. 

If the hole is not so large as it ought to be, the soil 
will not be kept moist all through. In this case, make it 
larger. A little observation will enable you to regulate 
matters in such a manner as to secure just the flow of 
water needed. By the "tin-can method" of watering 
basket plants, the trouble of watering in the ordinary 
way will be done away with, and the results will be ex- 
tremely satisfactory. 

Plants can be grown nearly as well in the window box 
as in the open ground if enough water is given to keep 
the soil moist, all through, at all times. The ' ' little-and- 
often" plan, spoken of in this chapter, will lead to dismal 
failure in the care of window boxes. Apply at least a 
pailful of water every day, in warm weather. If this is 
done, there need be no failure. If those who have failed 
heretofore will bear this in mind, and follow the advice 
given, they may have window boxes that will make their 
windows beautiful during the entire summer, with very 
little trouble. 

TEA BOSES FOR BEDS 

No part of my garden affords me more pleasure than 
my bed of Tea Roses. I cut dozens of flowers from it 
nearly every day from June to the coming of cold 
weather, for buttonhole and corsage bouquets, and for use 
on the table, and in the parlor. One fine rose and a bit of 
foliage is a bouquet in itself. If I could have but one bed 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 135 

of flowers, it should be a bed of Tea Roses — and yet, I 
should want a bed of Pansies to supplement the Roses; 
therefore, a bed of each would be a necessity. 

If you want to give a friend a buttonhole nosegay 
that shall be "just as pretty as it can be," you must have 
a bed of these Roses to draw from. A half-blown flower 
of Meteor, with its velvety, crimson petals, and a bud of 
Perle des Jardins, just showing its golden heart, with a 
leaf or two of green to set off the flowers — what a lovely 
harmony of rich color Or, if your taste inclines you 
to more delicate colors, take a bud of Luciole, and a 
Catherine Mermet when its petals are just falling apart. 
Nothing can be lovelier, you think, till you have. put half 
open Perle des Jardins with a dark purple or azure-blue 
Pansy. When you have done that, you are charmed 
with the manner in which the two colors harmonize and 
intensify each other, and you are sure there was never 
anything finer for a flower-lover to feast his eyes on. Put 
a tawny Safrano or Sunset bud with a purple Pansy and 
see what a royal combination of colors you have in the 
simple arrangement. Be sure to have a bed of Tea Roses, 
and make combinations to suit yourself. ' 

In order to make a success of your bed of Tea Roses — 
though perhaps I ought to say ever-bloomers, for probably 
your selection will include other varieties than the Tea — 
you must have a rich soil for them to grow in. When a 
branch has borne flowers, it must be cut back to some 
strong bud. This bud will, if your soil is rich enough to 
encourage vigorous growth, -soon become a branch, and 
produce flowers. It is by constant cutting back that jou 
secure new growth, if the soil is in a condition to help it 
along, and only by securing this steady production and 
development of new branches can you expect many 



136 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

flowers. All depends on that. If proper treatment is 
given, you need not be without flowers, unless you cut 
them all, from June to October. 

If I were to name all the desirable varieties, I might 
fill several pages with the list. Look over the catalogs 
of the florists and you will see that the variety is almost 
endless. If you do not care to invest money enough to 
secure, the newer varieties, tell the dealer to whom you 
give your patronage what you want the plants for, and 
he will make a selection which will include some of the 
best kinds, and which will be sure to give you as good 
satisfaction as you would get from a selection of your 
own. Better, in most instances, for you make your selec- 
tion from the description in the catalog, Avhile he would 
select from his knowledge of the merits of the flower. 

By all means have a bed of these most sweet and 
lovely Roses. If the season happens to be a hot and dry 
one, mulch your rose bed with grass clippings from the 
lawn. Spread them evenly about the plants, to a depth 
of two or three inches, in such a manner as to cover the 
entire bed. By so doing, you prevent rapid evaporation 
and the roots of the plant are kept much cooler than 
when strong sunshine is allowed to beat down upon the 
surface of the bed. When . the mulch begins to decay, 
remove it, and apply fresh clippings. About the middle 
of the season give the soil a liberal dressing of fine bone 
meal, working it well about the roots of the plants; or, 
if you can get it, use old cow manure. Whatever you 
apply, be sure it gets where the roots can make use of it. 

"While the above illustrations show Mr. Rexford's interests 
in the affairs of home life and demonstrate his simple, direct 
way of saying what he wishes us to know, yet they do not man- 
ifest that finer literary sense of which he is possessed. They 
are scientific thought, clearly and dirertly expresped, but be ^as 
that sentiment of the heart and that keen appreciation of the 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 137 

relation of sound to sense which marks him as .the poet and 
song writer. 

His first book publication of a poetic nature is a long nar- 
rative poem entitled "Brother and Lover." It is a story of Civil 
War times and is rich in the sentiment of friendship which, to 
his mind, endures not merely through this life, but abides 
throughout all time. The plot of this story is very simple, in- 
volving but three characters, a young woman, her brother, and 
her lover. 

Mr. Rexford's last collection of poems appeared in 1911 
under the title "Pansies and Rosemary." He explained this 
title in the following quotation: "Pansies — for thoughts, and 
Rosemary — that's for remembrance." Many of the thoughts 
in these poems seem to be such as come to us at eventide, for 
they reflect many sentiments concerning death. It would seem 
that Mr. Rexford has cherished those occasions which bring 
a community in humility and close sympathy, to point the sig- 
nificance of the great lesson of hope, in the most beautiful 
language that he commands. 

In a few of these poems, dialect has been chosen as the 
form of expression. One of this type has been selected for this 
reading. It illustrates the fact that in these simple acts of 
community effort to do the constructive, there always comes 
more joy than can come from the polished product of practised 
art. 

Naturally we expect one who loved the beauty of the land- 
scape and the color of petal and the fragrance of flower to be 
more or less of a Nature poet. To him Nature is the great 
teacher of God's handiwork, and imparts to us solace and joy. 
Mr. Rexford has also chosen to disregard the life of the city 
for the life of the country village, where every individual to the 
youngest school child may know him and revefence him for his 
kindly helpfulness. He loves the humble worker in the com- 
mon walks of life. "The Two Singers" given later will illustrate 
his theory of usefulness. 

He does not conceal the presence of evil, nor does he con- 
done it, but he does show the great strength which may be at- 
tained through resistance of it. The unfruitful tree illustrates 
this point. 

Mr. Rexford has always been a great lover of music. He 
has led the village choir and he has played the organ at the 
church service for many years. He has written not merely the 
words that he sings, but he has also set many of his little lyrics 
to music. When the village school has needed a song for a spe- 
cial program, when the church service has been in special need, 
or when the Memorial Day program could be rendered more 
sacredly helpful by his music, Mr. Rexford has always been 
ready to assist. He has kindly consented to our publishing his 
famous song, "Silver Threads Among the Gold," and its sequel, 
"When Silver Threads are Gold Again." 



138 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

THE OIJ> VILLAGE CHOIR 

All of these poems are reprinted with consent of the author and 
the J. B. Liippincott Publishing Co. 

I liave be'n in city churches where the way-up singers sing. 

Till their thousand'-dollar voices make the very rafters ring. 

Seems as if the sound kep' clim'in' till it got lost in the spire. 

But I all the time was wishin' 'twas our dear ol' village choir. 



Somehow, highfallutin' singin' never seemed to touch the spot 
Like the ol' religious singin' o' the times I hain't forgot; 
Jest the ol' hymns over'n over — nothin' city folks desire, 
But some heart was in the singin' of that same ol' village choir. 

Nothin' airy 'bout the singers — land; they never tho't o' style, 
But they made you think o' Heaven an' of good things all the 

while, 
Made you feel as ef the angels couldn't help a comin' nigher 
Jest to lis'en to the music made by that ol' village choir. 

When they sung ol' Coronation, w'y — it somehow seemed to 

grip 
An' to take your heart up with it on a sort o' 'scursion trip 
To the place where God stays! Of en heart an' soul seemed all 

afire 
With the glory that they sung of in the dear ol' village choir. 

Then they'd have us all a-cryin' when they sung, at funril-time. 
Soft, an' low, an' sweet, an' solium hymns that told about the 

clime 
Where there's never death or partin,' an' the mourners never'd 

tire 
Lis'nen' to the words o' comfort sung by the ol' village choir. 

You c'n have your city singin' if you think it fills the bill; — 
Give me the ol'-fashioned music of the ol' church on the hill. 
Music with no style about it — nothin' fine folks would admire, 
But it makes me homesick, thinkin' o' the dear ol' village choir. 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 139 

THE TWO SINGERS 

I know two of this earth's singers; one longed to climb and 

stand 
Upon the heights o'er looking the peaceful lower land, 
"There where great souls have gathered, the few great souls of 

earth, 
I'll sing my songs," he told us, "and they will own their worth. 

"But if I sang them only to those who love the plain 
They would not understand them, and I would sing in vain. 
Oh, better far to sing them to earth's great souls, though few. 
Than to sing them to the many who ne'er one great thought 
knew." 

So he climbed the heights, and on them sang, and those who 

heard — 
Earth's few great souls, ah, never they gave one longed-for 

word, 
For the mighty thoughts within them filled each one's soul and 

brain, 
And few among them listened to the music of his strain. 

But the other singer sang to the toilers in the vale, 
The patient, plodding many, who strive, and win, and fail. 
His songs of faith and gladness, of hope and trust and cheer. 
Were sweet with strength and comfort, and men were glad to 
hear. 

Little this valley singer knew of the good he wrought; 

He dreamed not of the courage that from his songs was 

caught — 
Of the hearts that were made lighter, the hands that stronger 

grew. 
As they listened to his singing to the many, not to few. 

He who sang upon the mountains was forgotten long ago — 
Not one song of his remembered as the swift years come and go. 
But the dwellers in the valley sing the other's sweet songs o'er, 
And as his grave grows greener they love them more and more. 



140 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

THE UNFRUITFUL TREE 

There stood in a beautiful garden 
A tall and stately tree. 
Crowned with its shining leafage 
It was wondrous fair to see. 
But alas! it was always fruitless; 
Never a blossom grew 
To brighten its spreading branches 
The whole long season through. 

The lord of the garden saw it. 

And he said, when the leaves were sere, 

"Cut down this tree so worthless, 

And plant another here. 

My garden is not for beauty 

Alone, but for fruit, as well. 

And no barren tree must cumber 

The place in which I dwell." 

The gardener heard in sorrow. 

For he loved the barren tree 

As we love some things about us 

That are only fair to see. 

"Leave it one season longer. 

Only one more, I pray,"- 

He plead, but the lord of the garden 

Was firm, and answered, "Nay." 

Then the gardener dug about it. 
And cut its roots apart, 
And the fear of the fate before it 
Struck home to the poor tree's heart. 
Faithful and true to his master. 
Yet loving the tree as well. 
The gardener toiled in sorrow 
Till the stormy evening fell. 

"Tomorrow," he said, "I will finish 
The task that I have begun." 
But the morrow was wild with tempest. 
And the work remained undone. 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 141 

And through all the long, bleak winter 
There stood the desolate tree. 
With the cold white snow about it, — 
A sorrowful thing to see. 

At last, the sweet spring weather 

Made glad the hearts of men, 

And the trees in the lord's fair garden 

Put forth their leaves again. 

"I will finish my task tomorrow," 

The busy gardener said, 

And thought, with a thrill of sorrow, 

That the beautiful tree was dead. 

The lord came into his garden 

At an early hour next day, * 

And to the task unfinished 

The gardener led the way. 

And lo! all white with blossoms. 

Fairer than ever to see. 

In the promise of coming fruitage 

Stood the sorely-chastened tree. 

"It is well," said the lord of the garden. 

And he and the gardener knew 

That out of its loss and trial 

Its promise of fruitfulness grew. 

It is so with some lives that cumber 

For a time the Lord's domain. 

Out of trial and bitter sorrow 

There cometh countless gain, 

And fruit for the Master's harvest 

Is borne of loss and pain. 

A DAY IN JUNE 

I could write such a beautiful poem 

About this summer day 

If my pen could catch the beauty 

Of every leaf and spray. 

And the music all about me 

Of brooks, and winds, and birds, 



142 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

But the greatest poet living 

Cannot put tliem into words. 

If I might, you would hear all through it 

The whispering of the breeze, 

Like a fine and far-off echo 

Of the ocean's harmonies. 

You would hear the song of the robin 

A-swing in the appletree. 

And the voice of the river going 

On its search for the great gray sea. 

You would breathe the fragrance of clover 

In the words of every line. 

And incense out of the censors 

Of hillside larch and pine. 

You would see through the words the roses 

And deep in their hearts of gold 

The sweets of a thousand summers, 

"But words are so weak, so cold! 

If I only could write the color 
Of the lilacs' tossing plume. 
And make you feel in a sentence 
The spell of its rare perfume: — 
If my pen could catch the glory 
Of the clouds and the sunset sky, 
And the peace of the summer twilight 
My poem would never die! 

SILVER THREADS AMONG THE GOLD 

Copyright, 1915, by Estate of Hamilton S. Gordon. 
I. 
Darling, I am growing old, — 
Silver threads among the gold. 
Shine upon my brow today; — 
Life is fading fast away; 
But, my darling, you will be 
Always young and fair to me. 
Yes! my darling, you will be- 
Always young and fair to me. 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 143 

11. 
When your hair is silver-white, — 
And your cheeks no longer bright 
With the roses of the May, — 
I will kiss your lips, and say: 
Oh! my darling, mine alone. 
You have never older grown, 
Yes, my darling, mine alone, — 
You have never older grown. 

III. 

Love can never-more grow old, 
Locks may lose their brown and gold; 
Cheeks may fade and hollow grow; 
But the hearts that love, will know 
Never, winter's frost and chill; 
Summer warmth is in them still. 
Never winter's frost and chill. 
Summer warmth is in them still. 

IV. 

Love is always young and fair, — 
What to us is silver hair. 
Faded cheeks or steps grown slow, 
To the hearts that beat below? 
Since I kissed you, mine alone, 
You have never older grown. 
Since I kissed you, mine alone, 
You have never older grown. 

Chorus to last verse. 
Darling, we are growing old, 
Silver threads among the gold. 
Shine upon my brow today; — 
Life is fading fast away. 

WHEN SILVER THREADS ARE GOLD AGAIN 

"Words by Eben E. Rexford; music by H. P. Danks. Copyright, 
1915, by Estate of Hamilton S. Gordon. 

You tell me we are growing old. 

And show the silver in your hair. 



144 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

Whence time has stolen all the gold. 
That made your youthful tresses fair; 
But years can never steal away 
The love that never can grow old. 
So what care we for tresses gray, — 
Since love will always keep its gold. 

Oh, darling, I can read today. 
The question in your thoughtful eyes; 
You wonder if I long for May, — 
Beneath the autumn's frosty skies. 
Oh, love of mine, be sure of this: 
For me no face could be so fair 
As this one that I stoop to kiss 
Beneath its crown of silver hair. 

Oh, darling, though your step grows slow. 
And time has furrowed well your brow, 
And all June's roses hide in snow. 
You never were so dear as now. 
Oh, truest, tend'rest heart of all, 
Lean on me when you weary grow, 
As days, like leaves of autumn, fall 
About the feet that falter so. 

Oh, darling, with your hand in mine. 
We'll journey all life's pathway through. 
With happy tears your dear eyes shine 
Like sweet blue blossoms in the dew. 
The sorrows of the passing years 
Have made us love each other more. 
And every day that disappears 
I count you dearer than before. 

Chorus. 
Oh, love, I tell you with a kiss, 
If heav'n gives back the youth we miss 
Your face will be no fairer then 
When silver threads are gold again. 



CARL SCHURZ. 

Carl Schurz was born at Liblar, Prussia, 1829. He was 
educated in the gymnasium of Cologne, and the University of 
Bonne. He entered the revolutionary army in 1848, and was 
likewise the editor of a revolutionary paper. He was obliged 
to flee to Switzerland, and his accounts of his narrow escapes 
in getting across the border, as given in his Reminiscences, are 
intensely thrilling. He came to America in 1852, and after 
three years' residence in Philadelphia, he settled in Watertown, 
in our own state. Though he was later a resident of Michigan, 
Missouri, and New York, and indeed represented the second- 
named state in the Senate of the United States, yet throughout 
his Reminiscences he frequently speaks of Wisconsin in a man- 
ner that shows he thought of it as his home. 

His life as an American citizen was full of honor and re- 
sponsibility. He was made Minister to Spain by President Lin- 
coln, but soon resigned to come back home and serve in the 
Civil War. He was a brigadier-general of volunteers and took 
part in the battles of Chancellorsville, Gettysburg, and Chat- 
tanooga. During all the rest of his life he was active in the 
service of his country, both in and out of office. He was 
strongly on the side of reconciliation with the South, and he 
hoped and worked for a re-united country. His addresses and 
his letters show his intense faith in Civil Service reform. His 
Reminiscences indicate how thoroughly American this man 
became, and how deeply he appreciated, and how jealously he 
wished to guard, the freedom which he had failed to find in his 
mother country, and which he had risked so much to obtain 
here. 

The first selection here given is from Volume I of his Rem- 
iniscences. It relates the escape from the prison at Spandau 
of his dear friend, Professor Kinkel, in which Schurz played 
an important part. We see here how closely organized this 
band of revolutionists was, and the intensity of their love for 
each other, together with the sense of fun and adventure in all 
they did. 

The second selection is characteristic of the oratory of Mr. 
Schurz during his later years. It shows an intense patriotism, 
and enTphasizes the fact that though he was not born here, for 
him but one country had the slightest claim upon his devotion. 



146 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

THE REMINISCENCES OF CAKL SCHURZ 

From Vol. I — 1829-1852. Chapter X, p. 311. Copyright, 1907, by 
the McClure Co. 

Shortly before midnight I stood, equipped as on the 
night before, well hidden in the dark recess of the house 
door opposite the penitentiary. The street corners right 
and left were, according to agreement, properly watched, 
but our friends kept themselves, as much as possible, 
concealed. A few minutes later the night watchman 
shuffled down the street, and, when immediately in front 
of me, swung his rattle and called the hour of twelve. 
Then he slouched quietly on and disappeared. What 
would I have given for a roaring storm and a splashing 
rain! But the night was perfectly still. My eye was 
riveted to the roof of the penitentiary building, the 
dormer windows of which I could scarcely distinguish. 
The street lights flared dimly. Suddenly there appeared 
a light above, by which I could observe the frame of one 
of the dormer windows ; it moved three times up and 
down ; that was the signal hoped for. With an eager 
glance I examined the street right and left. Nothing 
stirred. Then on my part I gave the signal agreed upon, 
striking sparks. A second later the light above dis- 
appeared and I perceived a dark object slowly moving 
across the edge of the wall. My heart beat violently and 
drops of perspiration stood upon my forehead. Then the 
thing I had apprehended actually happened: tiles and 
brick, loosened by the rubbing rope, rained down upon 
the pavement with a loud clatter. ''Now, good heaven, 
help us!" At the same moment Hensel's carriage came 
rumbling over the cobblestones. The noise of the falling 
tiles and brick was no longer audible. But would they 
not strike Kinkel's head and benumb him? Now the 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 147 

dark object had almost reached the ground. I jumped 
forward and touched him; it was indeed my friend and 
there he stood alive and on his feet. 

''This is a bold deed," were the first words he said 
to me. 

"Thank God," I answered. "Now off with the rope 
and away." 

I labored in vain to untie the rope that was wound 
around his body. 

' ' I cannot help you, ' ' Kinkel whispered, ' ' for the rope 
has fearfully lacerated both my hands." I pulled out 
my dirk, and with great effort I succeeded in cutting the 
rope, the long end of which, as soon as it was free, was 
quickly pulled up. While I threw a cloak around Kin- 
kel's shoulders and helped him get into the rubber shoes, 
he looked anxiously around. Hensel's carriage had 
turned and was coming slowly back. 

"What carriage is that?" Kinkel asked. 

"Our carriage." 

Dark figures showed themselves at the street corners 
and approached us. 

"For heaven's sake, what people are those?" 

"Our friends." 

At a little distance we heard male voices sing, "Here 
we sit gayly together/' 

"What is that?" asked Kinkel, while we hurried 
through a side street toward Kruger's hotel. 

"Your jailers around a bowl of punch." 

"Capital!" said Kinkel. We entered the hotel 
through a back door and soon found ourselves in a room 
in which Kinkel was to put on the clothes that we had 
bought for him — a black cloth suit, a big bear-skin over- 
coat, and a cap like those worn by Prussian forest officers. 



148 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

From a room near by sounded the voices of the revelers. 
Kruger, who had stood a few minutes looking on while 
Kinkel was exchanging his convict's garb for an honest 
man's dress, suddenly went out with a peculiarly sly 
smile. "When he returned carrying a few filled glasses, 
he said, "Herr Professor, in a room near by some of 
your jailers are sitting around a bowl of punch. I have 
just asked them whether they would not permit me to 
take some for a few friends of mine who have just arrived. 
They had no objection. Now, Herr Professor, let us drink 
your health first out of the bowl of your jailers." We 
found it difficult not to break out in loud laughter. Kin- 
kel was now in his citizen's clothes, and his lacerated 
kands were washed and bandaged with handkerchiefs. 
He thanked his faithful friends with a few words which 
brought tears to their eyes. Then we jumped into Hen- 
sel's vehicle. The penitentiary officers were still singing 
and laughing around their punch bowl. 

THE TRUE AMERICANISM 

By Carl Schurz. From "MODERN ELOQUEOSTCE." Vol. IX, p. 

1025. Copyrig-ht, 1900, by The University Society. 

(Address delivered in New York City at a meeting of the 
Chamber of Commerce of the State of New York, January 2, 
1896, Mr. Schurz rising to second the resolutions embodied 
in a report to the Chamber by its Committee on Foreign Com- 
merce and the Revenue Laws upon the then pending Venezue- 
lan question). 

# # * What is the rule of honor to be observed by 
a power so strongly and so advantageoush^ situated as 
this Republic is? Of course I do not expect it meekly to 
pocket real insults if they should be offered to it. But, 
surely, it should not, as our boyish jingoes wish it to do, 
swagger about among the nations of the world, with a 
chip on its shoulder, shaking its fist in everybody's 
face. Of course, it should not tamely submit to real en- 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 149 

croachments upon its rights. But, surely, it should not, 
whenever its own notions of right or interest collide with 
the notions of others, fall into hysterics and act as if it 
really feared for its own security and its very independ- 
ence. As a true gentleman, conscious of his strength and 
his dignity, it should be slow to take offense. In its deal- 
ings with other nations it should have scrupulous regard, 
not only for their rights, but also for their self-respect. 
With all its latent resources for war, it should be the 
great peace power of the world. It should never forget 
what a proud privilege and what an inestimable blessing 
it is not to need and not to have big armies or navies to 
support. It should seek to influence mankind, not by 
heavy artillery, but by good example and wise counsel. 
It should see its highest glory, not in battles won, but in 
wars prevented. It should be so invariably just and 
fair, so trustworthy, so good tempered, so conciliatory, 
that other nations would instinctively turn to it as their 
mutual friend and the natural adjuster of their differ- 
ences, thus making it the greatest preserver of the world's 
peace. 

This is not a mere idealistic fancy. It is the natural 
position of this great republic among the nations of the 
earth. It is its noblest vocation, and it will be a glorious 
day for the United States Avhen the good sense and the 
self-respect of the American people see in this their 
"manifest destiny. " It all rests upon peace. Is not this 
peace with honor? There has, of late, been much loose 
speech about "Americanism." Is not this good Ameri- 
canism? It is surely today the Americanism of those 
who love their country most. And I fervently hope that 
it will be and ever remain the Americanism of our 
children and our children's children. 



MRS. HONORe WILLSIE. 

Mrs. Honors McCue Willsie is a young woman who received 
her collegiate training in the writing of English at the Univer- 
sity of Wisconsin, she being a graduate of that institution with 
the class of 19 02. Since her graduation she has written many 
things that have claimed the attention of readers in all parts 
of our country. She has traveled widely. She writes intimately 
and understandingly of the Indians of our Southwest, as well 
as of society folk of New York. Many readers of this volume 
have, no doubt, read her story, "Still Jim," recently published 
in Everybody's Magazine. Aside from the story here published, 
perhaps the best-known work of Mrs. Willsie is "We Die, We 
Die — There is No Hope," a plea for the Indians of the South- 
west. 

The editors of this book are very proud to be permitted to 
publish "The Forbidden North." It impresses them as being 
one of the great dog stories of all time. No doubt Mrs. Willsie 
got some of her inspiration in writing it from a Great Dane 
puppy, Cedric, who was her constant companion during her 
upper classman years at the University of Wisconsin. Indeed, 
this pair — the tall, dark-haired girl and the great, dun-colored 
dog — were a familiar sight to the students of the University 
and the residents of Madison. The reader may be sure that 
all the love expressed for Saxe Gotha is genuine. 

THE FORBIDDEN NORTH — THE STORY OF A GREAT 
DANE PUPPY 

Reprinted, by permission, from the Youth's Companion. 

One hot morning, a year or so ago, an Uncle Tom's 
Cabin Company arrived in a small Arizona town. On the 
platform of the blistered station the members of the 
company learned that the hall in which they were to 
play had just burned to the ground. That was the last 
straw for the company. They were without money ; they 
stood, disconsolately staring at the train, which waited 
for half an hour while the tourists ate breakfast in the 
lunchroom of the station. 




HONORS WILLSIE 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 153 

The stage-manager held in leash three dogs — the dogs' 
that the bill-posters displayed as ferocious bloodhounds, 
pursuing Eliza across the ice. As a matter of fact, 
Coburg and Hilda were two well-bred, well-trained Great 
Danes. The third dog, Saxe Gotha, a puppy of ten 
months, was their son. 

A well-dressed tourist eyed the dogs intensely ; finally, 
he came up and felt them over with the hand of the dog- 
fancier. 

' ' Give me fifty dollars for the three of them ! ' ' said the 
manager suddenly. 

The stranger stared at the manager suspiciously. 
Fifty dollars was a low price for such dogs. The stranger 
did not believe that so poor a company could have come 
by them honestly. However, he shrugged his shoulders 
and drew a roll of bills from his pocket. 

''AH right," he said. "Only I don't want the pup. 
He's bad with distemper. I haven't time to fuss with 
him." 

The manager in turn shrugged his shoulders, took the 
fifty dollars, and, while the new owner led Coburg and 
Hilda toward the baggage-car of the train, the Uncle 
Tom's Cabin Company boarded the day coach. 

Thus it happened that a thorough-bred Great Dane 
puppy, whose father and mother had been born in the 
soft green dusk of a German forest— a young boarhound 
— was left to fight for his sick life on the parching sands 
of an alien desert. 

There had been no need to tie Saxe Gotha. When the 
puppy had started down the platform after his father 
and mother, the manager had given him a hasty kick and 
a "Get back, you!" Saxe Gotha sat down on his 
haunches, panting in the burning sun, and stared after 



154 WISCONSIN IN . STORY AND SONG 

the receding train with the tragic look of understanding 
common to his kind. Yet, in his eyes there was less 
regret than fear. The Dane is a ''one-man dog." If he 
is given freedom of choice, he chooses for master a man 
to whom he gives his heart. Other men may own him; 
no other man except this choice of his heart ever wins his 
love. Saxe Gotha had yet to find his man. 

The station-master started toward the dog, but Saxe 
Gotha did not heed him. He rose and trotted toward the 
north, through the little town, quite as if he had business 
in that direction. The pup was not handsome at this 
period of his life. He was marked like a tiger with tawny 
and gray stripes. His feet and his head looked too large 
for him, and his long back seemed to sag with the weight 
of his stomach. But, even to the most ignorant observer, 
he gave promise of distinction, of superb size, and 
strength, and intelligence. 

At the edge of the little town, Saxe Gotha buried his 
feverish head in the watering-trough at the Wrenn 
rancho, drank till his sides swelled visibly, then started 
on along the trail with his business-like puppy trot. 
When he got out into the open desert, which stretched 
thirty miles wide from the river range to the Hualpai, 
and one hundred miles long from the railway to the Colo- 
rado River, he found the northern trail with no apparent 
difficulty . . . Saxe Gotha was headed for the north, 
for the cool, sweet depth of forest that was his natural 
home. 

He took fairly good care of himself. At intervals he 
dropped in the shade of a joshua-tree, and, after strug- 
gling to bite the cholla thorns from his feet, he would 
doze for a few minutes, then start on again. His dis- 
temper was easier in the sun, although his fever and the' 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 155 

desert heat soon evaporated the moisture that he had 
absorbed at the Wrenn's. 

About three o'clock he stopped, wrinkled his black 
muzzle, and raised his finely domed head. The trail now 
lay along the foot of the Hualpai. He turned abruptly to 
the right, off the main trail, and trotted into a little 
caiion. On the other side of a rock that hid it from the 
main trail was Jim Baldwin's tent. Jim came to the 
door, at the sound of Saxe Gotha drinking up his little 
spring. Jim was a lover of dogs. He did not know Saxe 
Gotha 's breed, but he did recognize his promise of 
distinction. 

' ' Howdy, old man ! ' ' said Jim. ' ' Have a can of beef ! ' ' 

Saxe Gotha responded to the greeting with a puppy 

gambol, and devoured the beef with gusto. Jim went 

into the tent for a rope. When he returned, the pup was 

a receding dot on the north trail. 

***** 

About four o'clock, the tri-weekly stage from the 
Happy Luck camp met Saxe Gotha. Dick Furman, the 
driver, stopped the panting horses and invited the huge 
puppy to ride with him. Saxe Gotha wriggled, chased 
his tail round once with a bark like the booming of a 
town clock, and with this exchange of courtesies Dick 
drove on southward, and the pup continued on his way 
to the north. 

***** 

As darkness came on, he slowed his pace, paused and 
sniffed, arid again turned off the main trail to a rough 
path up the side of the mountain. Before a silent hut of 
adobe, he found a half-barrel of water. Saxe Gotha rose 
on his hind legs, thrust his nose into the barrel and 
drank lustily. Then he stood rigid, with uneropped ears 



156 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

lifted and nose thrust upward, sniffing. After a minute 
he whined. The business to the north was pressing ; the 
pup did not want to stop; yet he still stood, listening, 
sniffing. At last, he started back to the main trail ; when 
he reached it, he stopped once more, and once more sniffed 
and listened and whined; then he deliberately turned 
back to the silent hut, and trotted along the narrow trail 
that led up -behind it to the west. 

A short distance up the mountain, clear in the light of 
the noon, a tiny spring bubbled out of the ground, form- 
ing a pool the size of a wash-basin. A man lay beside the 
pool. Saxe Gotha walked up to him, whining, and then 
walked round and round him, sniffing him from head to 
foot. He licked his face and pawed at his shoulder with 
his clumsy paw. But the man lay in the heavy slumber 
of utter exhaustion. He was a tall, lean, strong young 
fellow, in his early twenties. His empty canteen, his pick 
and bar beside him, with a sack of ore, showed that he 
was just back from a prospecting trip. He had evidently 
run short of water and, after a forced march to the 
spring, where he had relieved his thirst, had dropped 
asleep on the spot. 

At last Saxe Gotha lay down with his nose on the 
young man's shoulder, and his brown eyes were alert in 

the moonlight. Saxe Gotha had found his man ! 

* # # # # 

Saxe Gotha had found his man! A discovery as im- 
portant as that, of course, delayed the journey toward 
the north. All through the desert night the Great Dane 
pup lay shivering beside his man. What he saw beyond 
the silent desert, what vision of giant tree trunks, gray- 
green against an age-old turf, lured his exiled heart we 
cannot know. To understand what sudden fealty to the 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 157 

heedless form lie guarded forbade him his north would 
solve the riddle of love itself. 

Little by little the stars faded. At last dawn lighted 
the face of the sleeping man; he stirred, and suddenly 
sat up. Saxe Gotha bounded to his feet with a bark of 
joy. Startled, the young man jumped up, staggering 
with Aveakness, and scowled when he saw the big puppy 
chasing his tail. Hunger and a guilty conscience are 
richly productive of vicious moods. Saxe Gotha 's man 
picked up a rock and hurled it at him. 

' ' Git ! You blamed hound, you ! ' ' 

In utter astonishment, Saxe Gotha paused in his 
joyous barking, and stood staring at the young felloAv's 
sullen face. It was unbelievable ! The young man did 
not in the least realize that he had been found ! And yet, 
despite the eyes inflamed by the glare of the desert, his 
face was an intelligent one, with good features. He 
glared at the pup, and then walked weakly down the 
trail to his hut. Saxe Gotha followed, and sat on his 
haunches before the door, waiting. After a long time, 
the young man came out, washed and shaved, and with 
fresh clothes. He picked up his sack of ore, and as he 
did so, a haunted look came into his gray eyes. Such a 
look on so young a face might have told Saxe Gotha that 
the desert is bad for youth. But Saxe Gotha would not 
have cared. He kept his distance warily and wagged his 
tail. When the young man's glance fell on the dog, he 
saw him as something living on which to vent his own 
sense of guilt. Again he threw a stone at Saxe Gotha. 

"Get out! Go back where you belong!" 

The pup dodged, and stood waiting. Strangely dense 
his man was ! The young man did not look at him again, 
but fell to sorting samples of ore. Certain tiny pieces 



158 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

he gloated over as he found them, and he put them in a 
sack that he hid behind the door. 

Now, Saxe Gotha never meant to do it, but he was 
young, and his distemper made him very ill, and he had 
not slept all night. When he saw his man safely ab- 
sorbed in his work, he curled up in the shade of a rock 
and went off into the heavy sleep of a sick dog. 

When he awoke, his man was gone ! Saxe Gotha ran 
round and round through the adobe. The house was 
thick with scents of him, but whither he had gone was 
not to be told, for desert sands hold no scents. On the 
door-step lay an old vest of the man's. The dog sat down 
on this, and lifted his voice in a howl of anguish. There 
was only one thing to do, of course — wait for the man's 
return. 

***** 

All day Saxe Gotha waited. He drank deeply from 
the barrel of water, but he went without food, although 
the remains of the young man's breakfast lay on the 
table. It was not in Saxe Gotha 's breed to steal. All day 
and all night he waited. Now and again, he lifted his 
great voice in grief. With his face to that north which 
he had forbidden himself to seek, even though he was 
but a dog, he might have been youth mourning its peren- 
nial discovery that duty and desire do not always go 
hand in hand. Saxe Gotha might have been all the 
courage, all the loneliness, all the grief of youth, dis- 
illusioned. 

The morning of the second day, a man rode up the 
trail. He was not Saxe Gotha 's man. He dismounted, 
and called, "Hey, Evans!" 

Saxe Gotha, a little unsteady on his legs, sat on his 
haunches and growled. 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 159 

''Where's your boss, pup?" asked the man. "I 
didn't know he had a dog." 

Saxe Gotha growled. 

"Humph!" said the man. "Off stealing ore again, 
I suppose." 

The stranger prowled round the outside of the hut, 
and then came to the door. 

"Get out of the way, dog! I'm going to find out 
where this rich claim is that he's finding free gold in. 
He's a thief, anyhow, not to report it to his company." 

As he put his foot on the door-step, Saxe Gotha 
snapped at him. The stranger jumped back. 

"You brute hound!" he cried. "What do you mean? 
If I had a gun, I'd shoot you!" 

Saxe Gotha 's anger gave him strength to rise. He 
stood lurching ; his lips were drawn back over his fangs, 
his ears were flat to his head. The stranger walked back 
a few steps. 

"He must weigh nearly a hundred pounds!" he mut- 
tered. "Come on, old pup. Here, have some of my 
snack! Here's a piece of corned beef! Come on, old 
fellow!" 

Cajolery and threats were alike futile. Saxe Gotha 
was guarding for his man. After a while the dog's dumb 
fury maddened the stranger. He began to hurl rocks at 
the pup. At first the shots were harmless ; then a jagged 
piece of ore caught the dog on the cheek and laid it open, 
and another slashed his back. With the snarl of a tiger, 
Saxe Gotha made a leap from the door at the stranger's 
throat. The man screamed, and jumped for his horse so 
hastily that Saxe Gotha caught only the shoulder of his 
coat and ripped the back out of the garment. Before the 
pup could gather his weakened body for another charge, 



160 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

the stranger was mounted. He whipped his snorting 
horse down the trail, and disappeared. 

Saxe Gotha feebly worried at the torn coat, then 
dragged himself back to the door and lay down on th® 
vest, too weak to lick his wounds. The rest of the morn- 
ing he lay quiet. At noon he suddenly opened his eyes. 
His ears pricked forward, and his tail beat feebly on the 
floor. His man rode up. He had a sack of fresh supplies 
thrown across his saddle. He turned his horse into the 
corral, then came toward the hut. The vicious mood 
seemed still to be with him. 

' ' You still here ? " he growled. 

Then he caught sight of the piece of cloth, picke(i it 
up, and looked at the mauled and blood-stained muck on 
it. He stared at Saxe Gotha curiously. 

"Johnson was here, eh? I'd know that check any- 
where. The thief! What happened?" 

As Evans came up, Saxe Gotha tried to give the old 
gambol of joy, but succeeded only in falling heavily. The 
young fellow strode into the hut, and walked slowly 
about. The sack of nuggets was still behind the door. 
The map that he had long ago prepared for the company 
for which he was investigating mines still lay covered 
with dust. On the table were the hunk of bacon, the 
fried potatoes, the dry bread. A number of jagged rocks 

were scattered on the floor. The dog was bloody. 

* * # # * 

Slowly young Evans turned his whole attention to 
Saxe Gotha, who lay watching him with passionate in- 
tentness. Evans took a handful of raw potato skins from 
the table and offered them to the pup. Saxe Gotha 
snatched at them and swallowed them as if frenzied with 
hunger. Evans looked at the food on the table, then at 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 161 

the famished, emaciated dog. He stood gripping the edge 
of the table and staring out at the desert. A slow red 
came up from his neck and crossed his face ; it seemed a 
magic red, for it wiped the vicious lines from his face 
and left it boyish and shamed. Suddenly his lips trembled. 
He dropped down in the doorway and ran his hand 
gently along the pup's sensitive back. His bloodshot eyes 
were blinded with tears. 

''Old man," he whispered to Saxe Gotha, ''I wasn't 
worth it!" 

The dog looked up into the young man's face with an 
expression eager and questioning. And then, summoning 
all his feeble strength, he crowded his long, awkward 
body into the young man's lap. . . . 

After a moment he set Saxe Gotha on the floor and 
fed him a can of evaporated milk, carefully warmed, 
with bits of freshly fried bacon in it. He washed out the 
dog's cuts, then put him to bed in his own bunk. All 
that afternoon, while the dog slept, Evans paced the hut, 
fighting his fight. And, like all solitary desert-dwellers, 
he talked aloud . . . 

"They promised to pay me regularly, to raise me, to 
give me a job in the home office after a year. It's been 
two years now. Yes, I know, I made some promises. 
I was to report all finds and turn in all valuable ore to 
them. But they haven't treated me right." 

Then he turned to the sleeping dog, and his face soft- 
ened. 

"Wouldn't that beat you, his not eating the stuff on 
the table! Goodness knows I'd treated him badly 
enough! It seems as if even a dog might have a sense 
of honor; as if it didn't matter what I was, the fool pup 
had to keep straight with himself; as if — " 



162 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

Suddenly Evans stopped and gulped. ' Again came 
the slow, agonizing blush. For a long time he stood in 
silence. Finally, he squared his shoulders and moistened 
his lips. 

''I can send the maps and what ore I have left by 
stage tomorrow. But it will take another year to get the 
whole thing straightened up, and get them paid back — 
another year of loneliness, and sand-storms, and swelter- 
ing. No snowy Christmas or green spring or the smell of 
burning leaves in the fall this year for me. I guess the 
pup will stay by me, though." 

As if he realized that there was need of him, Saxe 
Gotha woke, and ambled over to the man's side. Evans 
sat down in the door, and the dog squatted beside him. 
Evans turned, took the dog's great head between his 
hands, and looked into the limpid eyes. 

' ' I guess, old man, that there are more ways than one 
of making a success of yourself, and money-making is the 
least of them." 

In Evans's eyes were the loneliness and grief of dis- 
appointed youth. But the rest of his face once more was 
clear and boyish with the wonderful courage of the 
young. 

Saxe Gotha pawed Evans's knee wistfully. Perhaps 
across the stillness of the desert he caught the baying of 
the hunting pack in some distant, rain-drenched wood- 
land. Yet he would not go. The dog leaned warmly 
against his man, who slid an arm across the tawny back. 
Then, with faces to their forbidden north, man and dog 
watched the desert night advance. 



EDNA FERBER. 

Among those who are striving for a permanent place among 
short story writers is Edna Ferber, a young woman who makes 
her stories interesting through her own keen observation of 
character traits revealed in the everyday life about her. Miss 
Ferber's work deserves mention among any group of Wisconsin 
writers quite as much from the promise of what may still come 
as from that already accomplished. Her ability to see the real 
in character and the truth in real life is the strong character- 
istic of her work. She has attempted to follow somewhat 
closely the language of the everyday life she portrays. 

Edna Ferber's short stories, many of which have appeared 
in various magazines, have been collected into books published 
under the titles of "Buttered Side Down," "Dawn O'Hara," 
"Roast Beef Medium," and "Personality Plus." These stories 
are unified through the two characters portrayed, Dawn O'Hara 
and Mrs. Emma McChesney. It is probable that much of her 
own struggle and much of her aspiration for women is por- 
trayed in these two characters. She hopes to show that women 
may make an undisputed place for themselves in the profes- 
sional and business life. 

The first of these characters is a young Irish woman who 
has devoted her energies to the mastering of the city news- 
paper reporter's work. Through the story of Dawn O'Hara's 
struggles, Edna Ferber has been able to give many interesting 
comments upon the toil and thrills of this nerve-racking work. 
At the same time she has been able to paint the struggle of 
the young writer to produce the first book, to picture German 
Milwaukee in a most interesting manner, and to make some 
interesting comments upon mutual helpfulness. 

Emma McChesney is an example of the extraordinarily suc- 
cessful busines woman. Despite the most discouraging condi- 
tions, she works her way from the beginning of a firm's least 
inviting employment to the complete management of its affairs. 
All the time she is inspired by the desire to give her son the 
best education and the best start in life and to assist him to the 
most manly character possible.' The aixthor rewards Emma 
McChesney with the full realization of her ambitions. 

Edna Ferber was born in Appleton, Wisconsin. Her home 
was a humble one, but was able to provide her with the oppor- 
tunity for high school education and a very little work in Law- 
rence College. After graduating from high school, she did 
work for the Appleton Crescent in the capacity of news collec- 
tor and reporter. Through this work she began to realize her 



164 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

powers and at tlie same time she trained herself to that keen 
observation of character which constitutes one of the greatest 
pleasures in her work. Appleton's stores, hotels, newspapers, 
and working life in general became her laboratory in which to 
study the characteristics, defects, and aspirations of human life 
as she finds it. As she has achieved greater success in her 
writing she has widened her sphere of acquaintanceship and of 
helpfulness. Her present home is Chicago. 

The selection from her writings which we are permitted to 
give here is chosen because it illustrates her style and at the 
same time gives a vivid picture of one phase of the life of Wis- 
consin's metropolis. It is a chapter taken from her book, 
"Dawn O'Hara," and is entitled, "Steeped in German." 

STEEPED IN GERMAN 

From "DAWN O'HARA." Copyright, 1911. by Frederick Stokes 
Publishing Co. 

I am living in a -little private hotel just across from ■ 
the court house square with its scarlet geraniums and its 
pretty fountain. The house is filled, with German civil 
engineers, mechanical engineers, and Herr Professors 
from the German academy. On Sunday mornings we 
have Pfannkuchen with currant jelly, and the Herr Pro- 
fessors come down to breakfast in fearful flappy German 
slippers. I'm the only creature in the place that isn't 
just over from Germany. Even the dog is a dachshund. 
It is so unbelievable that every day or two I go down to 
Wisconsin Street and gaze at the stars and stripes floating 
from the government building, in order to convince my- 
self that this is America. It needs only a Kaiser or so, 
and a bit of Unter den Linden to be quite complete. 

The little private hotel is kept by Herr and Frau 
Knapf. After one has seen them, one quite understands 
why the place is steeped in a German atmosphere up to 
the eyebrows. 

I nevei- would have foun.l it myself. It was Doctor 
von Gerhard who had suggested Knapf 's and who had 
paved the Avay for my coming here. 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 165 

' ' You will find it quite unlike anything you have ever 
tried before," he had warned me. ''Very German it is,, 
and very, very clean, and most inexpensive. Also I think 
you will find material there — how is it you call it ?• — copy, 
yes? Well, there should be copy in plenty; and types I 
But you shall see. ' ' 

From the. moment I rang the Knapf door-bell I saw. 
The dapper, cheerful Herr Knapf, wearing a disappointed 
Kaiser Wilhelm mustache, opened the door. I scarcely 
had begun to make my wishes known when he inter- 
rupted with a large wave of the hand, and an elaborate 
German bow. 

"Ach, yes! You would be the lady of whom the Herr 
Doktor has spoken. Gewiss Frau Orme, not? But- so 
a young lady I did not expect to see. A room we have 
saved for you — aber wunderhiibsch. It makes me much 
pleasure to show. Folgen Sie mir, bitte." 

"You — speak English?" I faltered with visions of my 
evenings spent in expressing myself in the sign language. 

"English? But yes. Here in Milwaukee it gives aber 
mostly German. And then, too, I have been only twenty 
years in this country. And always in Milwaukee. Here 
is it gemiitlich — and mostly it gives German. 

I tried not to look frightened, and followed him up to 
the — "but wonderfully beautful" room. To my joy I 
found it high-ceilinged, airy, and huge, with a vault of a 
clothes closet bristling with hooks, and boasting an un- 
believable number of shelves. My trunk was swallowed 
up in it. Never in all my boarding-house experience have 
I seen such a room nor such a closet. The closet must 
have been built for a bride's trousseau in the days of 
hoop-skirts and scuttle bonnets. There was a separate 
and distinct hook for each and every one of my most 



166 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

obscure garments. I tried to spread them out. I used 
two hooks to every petticoat, and three for my kimono, 
and when I had finished there were rows of hooks 
to spare. Tiers of shelves yawned for the hat-boxes 
which I possessed not, Bluebeard's wives could have held 
a family reunion in that closet and invited all of Solo- 
mon's spouses. Finally, in desperation, I gathered all my 
poor garments together and hung them in a social bunch 
on the hooks nearest the door. How I should have loved 
to show that closet to a select circle of New York 
boarding-house landladies ! 

After wrestling in vain with the forest of hooks, I 
turned my attention to my room. I yanked a towel thing 
off the center table and replaced it with a scarf that 
Peter had picked up in the Orient. I set up my typewriter 
in a corner near a window and dug a gay cushion or two 
and a chafing-dish out of my trunk. I distributed photo- 
graphs of Norah and Max and the Spalpeens separately, 
in couples, and in groups. Then I bounced up and down 
in a huge yellow brocade chair and found it unbelievably 
comfortable. Of course, I reflected, after the big veranda, 
and the tree at Norah 's, and the leather-cushioned com- 
fort of her library, and the charming tones of her 
Oriental rugs and hangings — 

* ' Oh, stop your carping, Dawn ! " I told myself. ' ' You 
can't expect charming tones and Oriental doo-dads and 
apple trees in a German boarding house. Anyhow there 's 
running water in the room. For general utility purposes 
that's better than a pink prayer rug." 

There was a time when I thought that it was the 
luxuries that made life worth living. That was in the 
old Bohemian days. 

"Necessities!" I used to laugh, "Pooh! Who cares 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 167 

about necessities. What if the dishpan does leak? It is 
the liixuries that count. ' ' 

Bohemia and luxuries! Half a dozen lean, boarding- 
house years have steered me safely past that. After such 
a course in common sense you don't stand back and ex- 
amine the pictures of a pink Moses in a nest of purple 
bull-rushes, or complain because the bureau does not 
harmonize with the wall paper. Neither do you criticize 
the blue and saffron roses that form the rug pattern. 
'Deedy not! Instead you warily punch the mattress to 
see if it is rock-stuffed, and you snoop into the clothes 
closet ; you inquire the distance to the nearest bath room, 
and whether the payments are weekly or monthly, and 
if Ihere is a baby in the room next door. Oh, there's 
nothing like living in a boarding-house for cultivating 
the materialistic side. 

But I was to find that here at Knapf's things were 
quite different. Not only was Ernest von Gerhard right 
in saying it was ''very German, and very, very clean;" 
he recognized good copy when he saw it. Types ! I never 
dreamed that such faces existed outside of the old German 
woodcuts that one sees illustrating time-yellowed books. 

I had thought myself hardened to strange boarding- 
house dining rooms, with their batteries of cold, critical 
women's eyes. I had learned to walk unruffled in the 
face of the most carping, suspicious and the fishiest of 
these batteries. Therefore, on my first day at Knapf's, 
I went down to dinner in the evening, quite composed 
and secure in the knowledge that my collar was clean and 
that there was no flaw to find in the fit of my skirt in 
the back. 

As I opened the door of my room I heard sounds as of 
a violent altercation in progress downstairs. I leaned 



168 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

over the balusters and listened. The sounds rose and 
fell, swelled and boomed. They were German sounds 
that started in the throat, gutturally, and spluttered their 
way up. They were sounds such as I had not heard 
since the night I was sent to cover a Socialist meeting in 
New York. I tip-toed down stairs, although I might 
have fallen down and landed with a thud without being 
heard. The din came from the direction of the dining- 
room. Well, come what might, I would not falter. After 
all, it could not be worse than the awful time when I 
had helped cover the teamsters' strike. I peered into the 
dining-room. 

The thunder of conversation went on as before. But 
there was no blood shed. Nothing but men and women 
sitting at small tables, eating and talking. When I say 
eating and talking, I do not mean that those acts were 
carried on separately. Not at all. The eating and talk- 
ing went on simultaneously, neither interrupting the 
other. A fork full of food and a mouthful of ten- 
syllabled German words met, wrestled, and passed one 
another, unscathed. I stood in the doorway, fascinated 
until Herr Knapf spied me, took a nimble skip in my 
direction, twisted the discouraged mustaches into tem- 
porary sprightliness, and waved me toward a table in the 
center of the room. 

Then a frightful thing happened. When I think of it 
now I turn cold. The battery was not that of women's 
eyes, but that of men's. And conversation ceased! The 
uproar and the booming of vowels was hushed. The 
silence was appalling. I looked up in horror to find that 
what seemed to be millions of staring blue eyes were 
fixed on me. The stillness was so thick that you could 
cut it with a knife. Such men! Immediately I dubbed 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 169 

them the aborigines, and prayed that I might find adjec- 
tives with which to describe their foreheads. 

It appeared that the aborigines were especially favored 
in that they were all placed at one long, untidy table at 
the head of the room. The rest of us sat at small tables. 
Later I learned that they were all engineers. At meals 
they discuss engineering problems in the most awe-inspir- 
ing Grerman. After supper they smoke impossible German 
pipes and dozens of cigarettes. They have bulging, 
knobby foreheads and bristling pompadours, and some of 
the rawest of them wear wild-looking beards, and thick 
spectacles, and cravats and trousers that Lew Fields never 
even dreamed of. They are all graduates of high-sounding 
foreign universities and are horribly learned and brilliant, 
Dut they are the worst mannered lot I ever saw. 

In the silence that followed my entrance a red-cheeked 
maid approached me . and asked what I would have for 
supper. Supper? I asked. Was not dinner served in 
the evening? The aborigines nudged each other and 
sniggered like fiendish little school-boys. 

The red-cheeked maid looked at me pityingly. Din- 
ner was served in the middle of the day, natiirlich. For 
supper there was Wienerschnitzel and kalter Aufschnitt, 
also Kartoffelsalat, and fresh" Kaffeekuchen. 

The room hung breathless on my decision. I wrestled 
with a horrible desire to shriek and run. Instead I 
managed to mumble an order. The aborigines turned to 
one another inquiringly. 

''Was hat sie gesagt?" they asked. "What did she 
say?" Whereupon they fell to discussing my hair and 
teeth and eyes and complexion in German as crammed 
with adjectives as was the rye bread over which I was 
choking, with caraway. The entire table watched me 



170 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

with wide-eyed, unabashed interest while I ate, and I 
advanced by quick stages from red-faced confusion to 
purple mirth. It appeared that my presence was the 
ground for a heavy German joke in connection with the 
youngest of the aborigines. He was a very plump and 
greasy looking aborigine with a doll-like rosiness of cheek 
and a scared and bristling pompadour and very small 
pig-eyes. The other aborigines clapped him on the back 
and roared : 

"Ai Fritz! Jetzt brauchst du nicht zu weinen! Deine 
Lena war aber nicht so huebsch, eh?" 

Later I learned that Fritz was the newest arrival and 
that since coming to this country he had been rather low 
in spirits in consequence of a certain flaxen-haired Lena 
whom he had left behind in the Fatherland. 

An examination of the dining room and its other occu- 
pants served to keep my mind off the hateful long table. 
The dining room was a double one, the floor carpetless 
and clean. There was a little platform at one end with 
hardy-looking plants in pots iiear the windows. The 
wall was ornamented with very German pictures of very 
plump, bare-armed German girls being chucked under 
the chin by very dashing mustachioed German lieuten- 
ants. It was all very bare, and strange and foreign to 
my eyes and yet there was something bright and com- 
fortable about it. I felt that I was going to like it, abor- 
igines and all. 

After my first letter home Norah wrote frantically, 
demanding to know if I was the only woman in the house. 
I calmed her fears by assuring her that, while the men 
were interesting and ugly with the fascinating ugliness of 
a bulldog, the women were crushed looking and uninter- 
esting and wore hopeless hats. I have written Norah 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 171 

and Max reams about this household, from the aborigines 
to Minna, who tidies my room and serves my meals, and 
admires my clothes. Minna is related to Frau Knapf, 
whom I have never seen. Minna is inordinately fond 
of dress, and her remarks anent my own garments are 
apt to be a trifle disconcerting, especially when she inter- 
sperses her recital of dinner dishes with admiring adjec- 
tives directed at my blouse or hat. Thus : 

''Wir haben roast beef, und sparribs mit sauerkraut, 
und schicken — ach wie schoen, Frau Orme I Aber ganz 
pracchtvoU ? " Her eyes and hands are raised toward 
heaven. 

' ' What 's prachtful ? " I ask, startled. ' ' The chicken ? ' ' 

"Nein; your waist. Selbst gemacht?" 

I am even becoming hardened to the manners of the 
aborigines. It used to fuss me to death to meet one of 
them in the halls. They always stopped short, brought 
heels together with a click, bent stiffly from the waist, and 
thundered: "Nabben', Fraulein!" 

I have learned to take the salutation quite calmly, and 
even the wildest, most spectacled and knobby-browed 
aborigine cannot startle me. Nonchalantly I reply, ''Nab- 
ben','' and wish Norah could but see me in the act. 

When I told Ernst von Gerhard about them, he 
laughed a little and shrugged his shoulders and said : 

''Na, you should not look so young, and so pretty, and 
so unmarried. In Germany a married woman brushes 
her hair quite smoothly back, and pins it in a hard knob. 
And she knows nothing of such bewildering collars and 
fluffy frilled things in the front of the blouse. How do 
you call them — jabots?" 



GEORGE L. TEEPLE. 

Mr. George L. Teeple was born in Champaign, Illinois, in 
1864, and at the age of nine came to Whitewater to live with 
his aunt and uncle. He was graduated from the old "Academic 
Department" of the Whitewater Normal, about which school 
he writes so charmingly in the sketch here given. 

Mr. Teeple planned his collegiate career in preparation for 
the profession of engineering. He was graduated from Cornell 
University in 1889, and was engaged in active engineering 
work and instructural duties in this line until 1895. But at 
this time he felt the call to the field of English, and he gave 
special study to this subject for two years at Harvard. Prom 
1897 to 1899 he was instructor in English in the State Normal 
School at Stevens Point, but at this time the demands of his 
health made it necessary that he resume active outdoor work, 
so, since the latter date, he has been more or less closely identi- 
fied with his first-chosen profession. But in all these years he 
has never lost his interest in creative literary activities. He 
writes very slowly and carefully, with infinite pains and almost 
endless revision. His work, as represented in "The Battle of 
Gray's Pasture," fully repays his effort, for, though the phrases 
seem to have come easily and readily, they show the fitness and 
grace that are the result of no other thing than rigorous care. 

His home is in Whitewater, which, as will be noted, has 
sheltered many Wisconsin writers, notably President Albert 
Salisbury and Dr. Rollin Salisbury, George Steele and Julius 
Birge. The selection here given is an account of a real football 
hattle. But "Gray's Pasture" has now been transformed into 
a modern athletic field, and the "spreading oak" has been 
replaced by a concrete grandstand. 



THE BATTLE OF GRAY'S PASTURE 

From the Century Mag-azine, September, 1903. 
# * # * * 

YoTi will find no such "Normalities" nowadays. The 
old breed is gone. The greenest I see look quite correct 
and starched and tailor-made. No originality of costume 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 173 

now. No "high-water pants," such as refreshed the eye 
in the old days. No pitifully insufficient coat, stretching 
its seams across some great fellow's back, button strug- 
gling with buttonhole to hold in his expanding chest, 
showing by its very insufficiency what a Hercules he Avas. 
You will see none of these now. They have disappeared ; 

the old sap and individuality quite, quite gone. 

***** 

There is no such spirit in the school today. They have 
a football eleven, it is true, and it holds its head well up 
among its mates ; a little above 'em, too, most of the time ; 
the old school's the old school yet, I tell 'em; but, after 
all, it isn't the old game, nor the old spirit. I go out 
sometimes to watch them, and think: "Well, it's a queer 
game they play now, and call football!" They trot out 
in such astonishing toggery; padded and guarded from 
shin to crown — welted, belted, strapped, and buckled 
beyond recognition. And there's no independence in the 
play; every move has to be told 'em. It's as if they 
weren't big enough to run alone; and so they hire a big 
stepmother of a university "coach," who stands around 
in a red sweater, and yells, and berates them. Not a man 
answers back; he doesn't dare to. They don't dare eat 
plain. Christian food, but have a "training table," and 
diet like invalids. I've seen 'em at a game not dare to take 
a plain drink of water; when they got thirsty they 
sucked at a wet sponge, like babes at the bottle ! 

It was not so in our day. No apron strings of a uni- 
versity coach were tied to us. We were free-born men. 
When we wanted to play we got together and went down 
to the old pasture, to the big oak tree that stood near the 
middle of it; and there we would "choose up," and take 
off our coats and vests and neckgear, and pile them round 



174 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

the oak, and walk out on the field and go at it — everybody 
— not a pitiful dozen or so, while the rest stood with 
their hands in their pockets and looked on — ^but everybody ! 
And it was football : no playing half an hour without 
seeing the ball in the air once; we kicked it all the 
time — except when we missed it, and then we kicked the 
other fellow 's shins ! And when we got thirsty we went 
down to the spring and took an honest drink out of an 
honest tin cup. 

And what a fine, free, open game it was — the old 
game! "What art you could put into its punting, and 
running, and dodging, and creeping, and drop-kicking ! 
And what a glorious tumult in the old-fashioned scrim- 
mage, especially the scrimmages in the old ditch. It was 
a rather broad and shallow ditch, and into it the ball 
would often roll, a dozen excited fellows dashing after it ; 
and there in the ditch bottom, in mad melee, frantic foot 
to foot, naked shin against sole leather, we would fight to 
drive the ball through the opposing mob. There might . 
the rustic Normalite, with implacable cowhides, the big- 
ger now the better, sweeten his humiliation with revenge, 
and well I remember the fearful devastation he sometimes 
wrought among our Academic shins ! 

But we were used to that. Indeed, we youngsters 
gloried in it. It was a spot upon your honor not to have 
a spot upon your shin. We compared them as soldiers 
brag of their wounds in battle,, and he who could exhibit 
the largest and most lurid specimen was the best man. 
Those discolored patches were our "V. C.'s" and ''Crosses 
of the Legion of Honor"; seals attesting our spirit, 
stamped with a stamp of good, stiff sole leather, painfully 
enough, it was true, but who cared for that? We were 
only sorry we could not exhibit them in public. To be 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 175 

obliged to carry such decorations under your trouser leg 
was hard. 

« " * * * # 

Football Night at the "Lincolnian Literary," and 
Laury Thompson's speech there I must tell about. If 
any of the old boys ever read this — and it is for them I 
am writing it — ^they will wonder if I leave that out. For 
it marked an epoch in the Normal preparation for the 
game. And coming from Laury Thompson it was so un- 
expected. He always looked so cheerful in his high-water 
pants. His clothes were such a harmonious misfit. And 
he got off his absurdities with such a grave, humorous- 
innocent face; only the veiled twinkling in the eyes to 
show that it was not the most solemn matter in the world. 

He "wore his pants high- water a-purpose," he told us; 
''had 'em made so for hot weather; coolin', ye know; re- 
freshin'; lets the air in; breeze of heaven playin' up and 
down your pant-leg. ' ' And when one of the boys cracked 
some joke on his big shoes, he gravely remonstrated, as- 
suring us that he "had those shoes made sort of in 
memoriam ; hide of a heifer calf of his'n that got killed 
by the cars ; a rosebud of a little critter ; he kind o ' wanted 
something to remember her by; tarnation good leather, 
too." He had "writ a poem" on that calf, he said, but 
refused to recite it; "felt delikit about exposin' his 
feelin's." 

The old Lincolnian Literary Society is dead now, and 
its room has been turned into a shop for the Manual 
Training Department. It is a long, narrow room on the 
third floor, and was crowded thai night to the very door. 
The meeting, called "to rouse public spirit in the matter 
of the coming game," grew spirited and hilarious as the 
speaking proceeded, and when Thompson was called on, 



176 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

and his tall, odd figure rose up in the midst, there was 
great thundering of boots along the floor. 

"Boys," he began, ''our Academic friends, raised, 
most of 'em, in this proud metropolis, seem to 'a' got the 
notion that because we haven't just stepped out of a 
fashion plate we can't play football. They tell us to 
'thrash the hayseed out of our hair,' and to 'slack off 
on our galluses, and see if we can't get some o' that 
high- water out of our pants;' they've been 'tryin' to 
figure out our combined acreage o' boot leather,' they say, 
'and had to give it up; Arabic notation wa'n't equal 
to it' 

"Well, let 'em laugh. I reckon we're duck-backed 
enough to shed whole showers o' that kind o' stuff; 
and when the game comes off they'll find that Avhat wins 
a game o' football ain't pants, nor hair, nor shoe-leather, 
but what's in and under 'em. They'll find men's feet 
in those shoes, and men's legs in those trousers, and 
the brains o ' men under that hair ! 

"For I tell you, we're goin' to win that game; and 
we're goin' to win it just because o' what gave us the 
hayseed an' the high-water and the boot-leather; because 
we've got on our side the men with muscle hardened on 
the old farm; men who've swung an axe from mornin' till 
night in the wood-lot, and cradled two acres of oats a 
day, and who'll go through 'em in a scrimmage like 
steers through standin' corn! 

"Yes, boys, it's true; we're 'hayseeds' and 'country 
Jakes.' All the better for that. Grass don't grow down, 
and go where you will, you'll find the hayseed at the top. 
Why, what was he?" — he turned and extended a long arm 
and forefinger toward a picture of Daniel Webster that 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 177 

hung behind him on the wall of the room, — "what was he ? 
A hayseed, and son of a hayseed!" 

Yes, there's a hayseed in our hair; 

Proud it's there! 
And our boots are big an' square; 

So they air! 
And when you hear 'em thunderin' 
On the Academic shin, 
Back them cowhide boots to win! 

Academs, beware! 

Hooray then for hayseed hair! 

It gits there! 
And for cowhides big and square; 

Every pair! 
And when you hear 'em thunderin' 
On the Academic shin. 
Back them cowhide boots to win! 

Academs, take care! 
***** 

But the morning of the great day came with a broad, 
red sun rolling and tumbling in mist, which blew away 
with rising wind and let the sun in to dry the field. 

And we were the heroes ; the great observed of all 
observers. We trod the earth with a large, heroic tread. 
I, the smallest, last, and youngest of the company, walked 
with the lordiest stride of all. The season long I had 
fought for a "place on the team," and I had won, and 
Annie was there to see. Never mind who Annie was. 
I am telling now about a football team. 

"Look at Banty, here," I heard a Normalite say, 
"captain o' the team, ain't he ? Hull thing, an' dog under 
the wagon." 

Even Annie smiled, and just then my cousin Teddy 
came up. 



178 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

''What are you lookin' so red an' savage about?" 
says Teddy. 

"Achin' to jump into that Normal team," says I. 

Under the big oak Rob Mackenzie and Tom Powell, 
with the big fellows around them, were settling the last 
preliminaries. The referee pitched the coin. 

''Heads it is," called Tom quietly. "We'll take 
the north goal." The wind by this time was stiff out 
of the north, and the Normals had won the toss. 

Now, too, we saw the meaning of the mysterious 
practice in Normal Hall. Along the lower edge of the 
pasture, and forming the eastern side-line, there ran 
a "tight board" fence, and next it, the entire length of 
the pasture, the shallow ditch I have already spoken of. 
In that ditch we used to fight half of our scrimmages, and 
in that ditch the Normals concentrated their strategy and 
strength. In massive formation, the ball in the midst, 
protected by the fence on one side and by a moving 
stockade of stout legs and sturdy shoulders on the other, 
down the ditch they would drive, sweeping away our 
lighter fellows like leaves as they went, on and on, to what 
seemed an inevitable goal. 

But right there the weakness of the play developed. 
The goal posts stood, as in the modern game, midway 
the ends of the field. No "touch-downs" counted, only 
goals; and to make a goal they must leave their ditch 
and protecting fence and come out into the open. And 
there Rob Mackenzie gathered his heavy men for the 
defense. With Whitty, and Nic, and Jim Greening, and 
the others, he would ram the Normal formation until it 
broke; then unless someone had done it before him, he 
would go in himself, capture the ball, and with Whitty, 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 179 

his team-mate, rush away with it toward the Norma4 

goal. 

• • * * * 

The second half began, and the Normal pace grew 
faster. Those endurin' muscles, "hardened on the old 
farm," that "had cradled two acres of oats a day, day 
in day out, under the July sun," were beginning to tell. 
Like a sledge-hammer at a shaking door the Normal 
formation pounded at our defence. When the door should 
fall seemed but a matter of time. The Normalite roar 
along the side-line grew louder. Again and again, while 
the scrimmage thickened, with John Hicks and Scott and 
Simpson hurling into it, would burst out their thundering 
refrain : 

Hooray for our hayseed hair; 

It gits there! 
An' our boots so big an' square; 

Every pair! 
And when you hear 'em thunderin' 
On the Academic shin, 
Back them cowhide boots to win! 
Academs, beware! 

And only for Rob Mackenzie we should again and 
again have gone down. How through our darkening for- 
tunes shone the unconquerable spirit and energy of his 
play! Like that kind of ancient Bedouins who, "when 
Evil bared before them his hindmost teeth, flew gaily to 
meet him, in company or alone ! ' ' Again and again the 
Normal formation rolled along the ditch sweeping our 
out-fighters before it, and again and again, as it reached 
the critical point and swung out into the field to make 
the goal, would Rob hurl against it his heavy attack, — 
Whitty, and Rhodes, and Limp, and Jim Greening, and 
big Nie, and finally himself, — till the Normal mass went 



180 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

into chaos ; out of which, through some unguarded gap, 
the ball would come tumbling, Rob and Whitty behind 
it; then down the field together they would dart, the 
ball before them, we youngsters yelling madly in the 
rear, the battle-fire in us, which had flagged with fear, 
bursting up again in yells of exultation like a flame. 

Yet not to score ; again neither side could score. The 
second half approached its end, and it seemed as if the 
game would remain a tie. As the two sides suddenly 
realized this, there came, as if by common consent, a 
pause. The Babel-roar along the side-line dropped into 
a hum. Then a voice called out, — it was Tom Powell; 
you could hear him all over the field : 

''How much more time?" 

And the answer came clear and clean-cut through 
the dead silence: 

' ' One minute and a half ! ' ' 

The Academics yelled with joy; no hope now of win- 
ning, but in so short a time the Normals cannot score; 
we escape defeat; it will be a drawn battle. Then they 
stilled again, not so sure. 

For the Normal ''sledge-hammer" was uplifting for 
a last blow. One chance remained, and Tom Powell 
staked all on" a final cast. He left only Van Lone to 
guard his goal. Every other man of his team he would 
build into the breaks of his formation in a last determined 
attack. Wave after wave he had hurled against us ; now 
this last, "a ninth one, gathering all the deep," he would 
hurl. 

The attack came on, and our out-fighters as usual went 
down before it. In practically perfect order, with Simp- 
son and John Hicks in flank, and Tom Powell himself at 
the centre, it turned out of the ditch for the goal. Whitty 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 181 

and Jim Greening went down ; then big Nic. The Normal 
uproar gathered and swelled and burst, and swelled and 
burst again as they swept on. In front, Kob Mackenzie, 
with a last handful, stood yet. He spoke a few low, sharp 
words, and they went forward, not in mass, but in line. 

The cooler heads looked and wondered. What did it 
mean? What could a thin line do against that massive- 
moving squad of men? but just wrap round it like a 
shred of twine, and like twine again, break, while the mass 
swept on. 

So the line moved forward; but just as it was on 
point to strike, it stumbled apparently, the whole line 
together, and went down. The Normal yell rose again. 
But it rose too soon; the line was not down, but crouch- 
ing there, a barricade across the Normal path. The stroke 
of strategy was too sudden to be met. Driven on by its 
very mass and the blind momentum of the men in the 
rear, the Normal formation struck our crouching line, 
toppled momentarily, as a wave topples over a wall of 
rock; then, self-destroying, its van tumbling over the 
Academic line, its rear plunging on over its broken front, 
it crumbled, broke, and stopped. 

Then, while the Academies along the side-line went 
mad with exultation, the fallen chaos struggled to its 
feet, a wilder chaos than ever, a score of boots slamming 
for the ball at once, which bounded back and forth like 
a big leathern shuttlecock in the midst. 

So, for a long-drawn moment, then it leaped out clear 
and free, and a player after it like a cannon-flash, down 
the field toward the Normal goal. Well may the Academics 
yell! It is Eob Mackenzie, — fastest man on the ground, 
and away now with a free field! Hard after him John 
Hicks, with every sinew at the stretch, and teeth grim- 



182 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

set, and the whole Normal team streaming in a wild tail 
of pursuit behind. The side-line, which, until now, had 
held the surge of spectators, burst like a dam in flood, 
and poured a yelling torrent toward the Normal goal. 

There stood big Van Lone, sole guardian bulldog at 
that gate ; an honest bulldog, but terribly bewildered, all 
pandemonium storming in on him at once. He started 
forward, but what could he do against Rob Mackenzie? 
The ball rises over his head, hovers an instant at top 
flight, or seems to ; then shoots forward between the goal 
posts. The game was won ! 

And who that was there will ever forget the celebra- 
tion that followed? Eob Mackenzie tossed skyward on 
a hundred shoulders, with mighty shouts, till the old pas- 
ture rocked and swam; the great, ruddy face of John 
Hicks, shining through the press, undimmed by defeat, 
as he came to greet his victorious foe; the meeting and 
hand-grasp of the two heroes, amid tremendous tumult, 
all lesser yells upborne on the oceanic roar of Nic; the 
wild processional through the town, tramping tumultuous 
to the roar of John Brown 's Body, with Eob in triumphal 
chariot, rolling on down Main Street toward the west, 
where the clouds of sunset flamed into bonfires and the 
firey sun itself seemed a huge cannon's mouth hurling a 
thunder salute in honor of the event. 

Well, all that happened years ago. Those old days 
can never come back. Even the old pasture I cannot see 
as I saw it then. It was only the other day, drawn by 
old thoughts revived, that I walked out to see it, through 
the still summer afternoon, down the old familiar road, 
so well known but so strangely quiet now, with its few 
scattered old, white oaks and maples, that seem to nod 
sleepily in a kind of old friendliness, till you come to the 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 183 

turn by the burr oak grove where the pasture opens. 

There they lay, — the long, tranquil slope, the green 
level that had been one field, the ditch along the fence, — 
under the quiet sunshine, in sleep and silence. Great, 
peaceful-looking white clouds, like great white cattle 
asleep, lay along the blue heaven overhead. The old oak 
where we were used to choose up stood motionless, as if it 
dreamed over the old days. Could this be indeed the old 
pasture, scene of our stormy uproar, this field asleep? I 
turned away with a half lonely feeling. 

The old boys are gone, too, most of them, scattered I 
don't know where. Do they ever, I wonder, after the 
day's work is done, sit in the evening by the warm fire- 
light, while the soft pipe-smoke wraps them in its tranquil 
cloud, and dream foolishly, as I do, over those old days? 
I like to think they do. 



GEORGE BYRON MERRICK 

The editors of this volume have been struck many times 
with the element of grouping that seems to have asserted itself 
in Wisconsin literary efforts, as in those of America, or Eng- 
land, or perhaps any country. Centers seem to be formed from 
which radiate light and glow of literary activities. Cambridge, 
Massachusetts, was the great literary center of our country in 
the middle fifty years of the nineteenth century. The Lake 
Region was such a center for English production in the pre- 
ceding fifty years. In Wisconsin, naturally enough, the Univer- 
sity has been the fountain from which has flowed much that is 
most worth-while in the literature of our state. It should be 
noted that not only those who are formally grouped here with 
the University as their center may justly be thought to be 
vitally indebted to that institution for the impulse to write. 
Among the authors first mentioned in this book, John Muir, 
Zona Gale, Mrs. Willsie, and Professor Sanford all were stu- 
dents at the University, and no doubt were profoundly influ- 
enced by their Alma Mater. 

The next most important source of inspiration to our 
authors seems to have been our rivers. The beautiful bluffs 
bordering the Mississippi; the charm and grace of the sweeping 
lines of Lake Pepin; the tumbling, rushing waters of the Wis- 
consin, with their thickly-wooded hills and their green slopes 
of prairie and their October sunsets, seen through crimson oak 
and maple leaves; or the numerous falls of the upper Fox, — 
all have stirred the hearts of the fortunate people privileged 
to live within their influence. Hence, at Stevens Point, La 
Crosse, Appleton, and a few other cities in the state with sim- 
ilar surroundings, we have a literature with charming local 
flavor. 

Elsewhere we quote Mr. Howard M. Jones's "When Shall 
We Together," which faithfully depicts the "river feeling" of 
those who love the Father of Waters. 

We desire to acquaint our readers, at this point, however, 
with a brief excerpt from what is perhaps the most careful and 
faithful depiction of the Mississippi itself, — Mr. Merrick's "Old 
Times on the Upper Mississippi." The author lived for many 
years amid the scenes that he depicts, and for nine years was 
a pilot on an upper Mississippi boat. The romance and adven- 
ture of that life helped more to rouse and challenge the im- 
agination than any other single feature of early pioneer days, 
and Mr. Merrick, though now what many would consider "pret- 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 185 

ty well along in years," is still young enough in the remem- 
brance of those days. Like many another hard-working pio- 
neer, he caught the spirit of his work, and he here has faith- 
fully set down the most careful record of river annals in 
existence, from a historical standpoint, and at the same time 
one which grips the interest of the reader. 

OLD TIMES ON THE UPPER MISSISSIPPI 

The recollections of a steamboat pilot from 1854 to 1863, by George 
Byron Merrick. Copyright, 1909; by the author. From Chap- 
ter XXX, pp. 241-247. 

I knew that I had not yet been weaned from the 
spokes, and doubted if I ever should be. I said that I 
would try, and I did. I filed an application for the first 
leave of absence I had ever asked for from the railroad 
company, and it was granted. I found a man to assist 
the "devil" in getting out my paper, he doing the editing 
for pure love of editing, if not from love of the editor. 
"We set our house in order, packed our trunk and grips, 
and when the specified fortnight was ended, we (my wife, 
my daughter, and myself) were comfortably bestowed in 
adjoining staterooms in the ladies' cabin of the ''Mary 
Morton," and I was fidgeting about the boat, watching 
men ''do things" as I had been taught, or had seen others 
do, twenty years ago or more. 

The big Irish mate bullied his crew of forty "niggers," 
driving them with familiar oaths, to redoubled efforts in 
getting in the "last" packages of freight, which never 
reached the last. Among the rest, in that half hour, I 
saw barrels of mess pork — a whole car load of it, which 
the "nigger" engine was striking down into the hold. 
Shades of Abraham ! pork out of St. Paul ! Twenty years 
before, I had checked out a whole barge load (three hun- 
dred barrels) through from Cincinnati, by way of Cairo. 
Cincinnati was the great porkopolis of the world, while 
Chicago was yet keeping its pigs in each back yard, and 



186 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

every freeholder "made" his own winter's supply of 
pork for himself. The steward in charge of the baggage 
was always in the way with a big trunk on the gangway, 
just as of old. The engineers were trying their steam, 
and slowly turning the wheel over, with the waste cocks 
open, to clear the cylinders of water. The firemen were 
coaxing the beds of coal into the fiercer heats. The chief 
clerk compared the tickets which were presented by hur- 
rying passengers with the reservation sheet, and assigned 
rooms, all "the best," to others who had no reservations. 
The "mud" clerk checked his barrels and boxes and 
scribbled his name fiercely and with many flourishes to 
the last receipts. The pilot on watch, Mr. Burns, sat on 
the window ledge in the pilot house, and waited. The cap- 
tain stood by the big bell, and listened for the "All ready, 
Sir ! " of the mate. As the words were spoken, the great 
bell boomed out one stroke, the lines slacked away and 
were thrown off the snubbing posts. A wave of the cap- 
tain's hand, a pull at once of the knobs of the wheel- 
frame, the jingle of a bell far below, the shiver of the 
boat as the great wheel began its work, and the bow of 
the "Mary Morton" swung to the south; a couple of 
pulls at the bell-rope, and the wheel was revolving ahead ; 
in a minute more the escape pipes told us that she was 
"hooked up," and with full steam ahead we were on our 
way to St. Louis. And I was again in the pilot house 
with my old chief, who bade me "show us what sort of 
an education you had when a youngster." 

Despite my forty years I was a boy again, and Tom 
Burns was the critical chief, sitting back on the bench 
with his pipe alight, a comical smile oozing out of the 
corners of mouth and eyes, for all the world like the 
teacher of old. 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 187 

The very first minute I met the swing of the gang- 
plank derrick (there is no jack staff on the modern steam- 
boat, more's the pity), with two or three strokes when one 
would have been a plenty, yawing the boat around "like 
a toad in a hailstorm," as I was advised. I could feel 
the hot blood rushing to my cheeks, just as it did twenty 
years before under similar provocation, when the eye of 
the master was upon me. I turned around and found that 
Mr. Burns had taken it in, and we both laughed like boys 
— as I fancy both of us were for the time. 

But I got used to it very soon, getting the "feel of 
it," and as the "Mary Morton" steered like a daisy I 
lined out a very respectable wake; though Tom tried to 
puzzle me a good deal with questions as to the landmarks, 
most of which I had forgotten save in a general 
way. * * * 

A mile or two below Hastings I saw the "break" on 
the surface of the water which marked the resting-place 
of the "Fanny Harris," on which I had spent so many 
months of hard work, but which, looked back upon 
through the haze of twenty years, now seemed to have 
been nothing but holiday excursions. 

At Prescott I looked on the familiar water front, and 
into the attic windows where with my brother I had so 
often in the night watches studied the characteristics of 
boats landing at the levee. G-oing ashore I met many 
old-time friends, among whom was Charles Barnes, agent 
of the Diamond Jo Line, who had occupied the same 
office on the levee since 1858, and had met every steam 
boat touching the landing during all those years. He 
was the Nestor of the profession, and was one of the very 
few agents still doing business on the water front who 
had begun such work prior to 1860. Since then, within 



188 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

a few years past, he also has gone, and that by an acci- 
dent, while still in the performance of duties connected 
with the steamboat business. 

Dropping rapidly down the river, we passed Diamond 
Bluff without stopping, but rounded to at Red Wing for 
passengers and freight, and afterward headed into a big 
sea on Lake Pepin, kicked up by the high south wind that 
was still blowing. We landed under the lee of the sand- 
pit at Lake City, and after getting away spent the better 
part of an hour in picking up a barge load of wheat, that 
was anchored out in the lake. * * * 

I turned in at an early hour, and lay in the upper 
berth, listening to the cinders skating over the roof a 
couple of feet above my face, and translating the familiar 
sounds that reached me from the engine-room and roof — 
the call for the draw at the railroad bridge, below the 
landing; the signal for landing at Wabasha; the slow 
bell, the stopping-bell, the backing bell, and a dozen or 
twenty unclassified bells, before the landing was fully 
accomplished ; the engineer trying the water in the 
boilers; the rattle of the slice-bars on the sides of the 
furnace doors as the firemen trimmed their fires ; and one 
new and unfamiliar sound from the engine-room — the 
rapid exhaust of the little engine driving the electric 
generator, the only intruder among the otherwise familiar 
noises, all of which came to my sleepy senses as a lullaby. 



MRS. HATTIE TYNG GRISWOLD. 

Hattie Tyng was born in Boston in 1840, and came with her 
parents to Columbus, Wisconsin, in 1850, where, in course of 
time, she was married to Mr. Griswold, and it was in this de- 
lightful village that much of her work as an author was done. 
Here she died- in 1909. 

The books by which she is best-known are: "Apple Blos- 
soms," "Waiting on Destiny," "Lucile and Her Friends," and 
"The Home Life of Great Authors." It is from the last named 
book that our selection is taken. As its title would indicate, 
the book aimed to give a more personal and intimate view of 
men and women well-known to fame than is to be found in 
most reference works. The young readers of this volume will 
know that mere dates and statistics do not enable them to 
know people; they like to have some personal details as to the 
habits and daily lives of the people about whom they read. 
Mrs. Griswold was so filled with the true teaching instinct that 
she realized this. She says in one of her works that since she 
had such a hard time when she was a little girl getting any pic- 
ture In her mind of the great people about whom she read, that 
she determined to make it easier for other boys and girls to 
get these mental pictures; that is why she wrote "The Home 
Life of Great Authors." 

JOHN G. WHITTIEB 

From "HOME LIFE OF GREAT AUTHORS." Copyright, 1886. 
A. C. McClurg- & Co. 

The poet Whittier always calls to mind the prophet- 
bards of the olden time. There is much of the old Semetic 
fire about him, and ethical, and religious subjects seem 
to occupy his entire mind. Like his own Tauler, he 
walks abroad, constantly 

"Pondering the solemn Miracle of Life; 
As one who, wandering in a starless night, 
Feels momently the jar of unseen waves. 
And hears the thunder of an unknown sea 
Breaking along an unimagined shore." 



190 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

His poems are so thorougly imbued with this religious 
spirit that they seem to us almost like the sacred writings 
of the different times and nations of the world.. They 
come to the lips upon all occasions of deep feeling almost 
as naturally as the Scriptures do. They are current coin 
with reformers the world over. They are the Alpha and 
Omega of deep, strong religious faith. Whoever would 
best express his entire confidence in the triumph of the 
right, and his reliance upon God's power against the de- 
vices of men, finds the words of Whittier upon his lips; 
and to those who mourn and seek for consolation, how 
naturally and involuntarily come back lines from his 
poems they have long treasured, but which perhaps never 
had a personal application until now! To the wronged, 
the down-trodden, and the suffering they appeal as 
strongly as the Psalms of David. He is the great High 
Priest of Literature. But few priests at any time have 
had such an audience and such influence as he. The 
moral and religious value of his work can scarcely be 
overstated. Who can ever estimate the power which his 
strong words have had throughout his whole career in 
freeing the minds of other millions from the shackles 
of unworthy old beliefs? His blows have been strong,- 
steady, persistent. He has never had the fear of man 
before his eyes. No man has done more for freedom, 
fellowship and character in religion than he. Hypocrisy 
and falsehood and cant have been his dearest foes, 
and he has ridden at them early and late with his lance 
poised and his steed at full tilt. Indeed, for a Quaker, 
Mr. Whittier must be said to have a great deal of the 
martial spirit. The fiery, fighting zeal of the old re- 
formers is in his blood. You can imagine him as upon 
occasion enjoying the imprecatory Psalms. In his anti- 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 191 

slavery poems there is a depth of passionate earnestness 
which shows that he could have gone to the stake for his 
opinions had he lived in an earlier age than ours. That 
he did risk his life for them, even in our own day, is Avell 
known. During the intense heat of the anti-slavery con- 
flict he was mobbed once and again by excited crowds; 
but he was not to be intimidated by all the powers of 
evil, and continued to speak his strong words and^to sing 
his inspiring songs, whether men would hear or whether 
they would forbear. And those Voices of Freedom, what- 
ever may be thought of them by mere critics and littera- 
teurs, will outlast any poems of their day, and sound 
''down the ringing grooves of Time" when much that is 
now honored has been forgotten. He will be known as 
the Poet of a great Cause, the Bard of Freedom, as long 
as the great anti-slavery conflict is remembered. He is 
a part, and an important part, of the history of his 
country, a central figure in the battalions of the brave. 
Those wild, stirring bugle-calls of his cheered the little 
army, and held it together many a time when the cause 
was only a forlorn hope, and they came with their stern 
defiance into the camp of the enemy with such masterful 
poAver that some gallant enemies deserted to his side. 
They were afraid to be found fighting against God, as 
Whittier had convinced them they were doing. There is 
the roll of drums and the clash of spears in these stirring 
strains; there are echoes from Thermopylae and Mara- 
thon, and the breath of the old Greek heroes is in the 
air; there is a hint of the old Border battle-cries from 
Scotland's hills and tarns ; from Jura's rocky wall we can 
catch the cheers of Tell; and the voice of Cromwell can 
often be distinguished in the strain. 

There is also the sweep of the winds through the 



192 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

pine woods, and the mountain blasts of New England, and 
the strong, fresh breath of the salt sea; all tonic in- 
fluences, in short, which braced up the minds of the men 
of those days to a fixed and heroic purpose, from which 
they never receded until their end was achieved. It has 
become the fashion in these days of dilettanteism to say 
that earnestness and moral purpose have no place in 
poetry, and small critics have arisen who claim that Mr. 
Whittier has been spoiled as a poet by his moral teach- 
ings. To these critics it is only necessary to point to the 
estimation in which Mr. Whittier 's poetry is held by the 
world, and to the daily widening of his popularity among 
scholars and men of letters, as well as among the people, 
to teach them that this ruined poetry is likely to live 
when all the merely pretty poetry they so much admire is 
forgotten forever. The small poets who are afraid of 
touching a moral question for fear of ruining their poems 
would do well to compare Poe, who is the leader of their 
school and its best exponent, with Mr. Whittier, and to 
ask themselves which is the more likely to survive the 
test of time. Let them also ponder the words of 
Principal Shairp, one of the finest critics of the day, when 
he says of the true mission of the poet, that ''it is to 
awaken men to the divine side of things ; to bear witness 
to the beauty that clothes the outer world, the nobility 
that lies hid, often obscured, in human souls ; to call forth 
sympathy for neglected truths, for noble and oppressed 
persons, for down-trodden causes; and to make men feel 
that through all outward beauty and all pure inward 
affection God himself is addressing them." They would 
do well also to ponder the words of Buskin, who believes 
that only in as far as it has a distinct moral purpose is 
a literary work of value to the world. 



ALBERT H. SANFORD. 

Professor Albert H. Sanford, of the La Crosse State Normal 
School, is best known as an author of text books and pamphlets 
on history and related subjects. But he is, like all the other 
school men whose works are represented here, interested in 
other fields besides his specialty. 

Born in the southwestern part of Wisconsin, he naturally 
became interested in farming, and in the development of agri- 
culture in the agricultural section. From this interest and his 
•natural bent toward anything historical grew his desire to pic- 
ture briefly and attractively the development of this most im- 
portant industry of our country from its early beginnings in 
colonial times to the present day. His book is filled with 
narratives and expositions which will hold the interest of any 
boy or girl who likes to read stories of adventure or trial, of 
hardship, and of final success. 

The most noteworthy feature of Professor Sanford's style 
is clarity, coupled with logical sequence and organization. The 
brief selection here given illustrates these qualities, and repre- 
sents very fairly the remainder of the book. 



THE STORY OF AGRICTULTURE Df THE UNITED STATES 

Copyright, 1916, by D. C. Heath & Co. From Chapter X. 

When farms were scattered, life became lonely and 
monotonous ; the people therefore took advantage of every 
possible occasion to have social gatherings. House rais- 
ings and log-rollings gave opportunity for such meetings. 
The women met in sewing and quilting bees and apple- 
parings ; the men came for the evening meal and remained 
for the country dance. The husking-bee was the most 
exciting of these events. The long pile of corn was 
divided equally between two leaders, who first ''chose 
sides" for the contest. Then the men fell to the work 
with a will, each side determined to finish its portion first. 



194 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

Sometimes the rivalry ran into rough play and even fight- 
ing ; but the spirit of good nature prevailed at the supper 
that had been prepared by the women in the meantime. 

To these ''frolics" were added, in later years, the 
spelling matches and singing schools, attended by both 
old and young. The coming of the backwoods ''circuit 
rider" to hold a religious service in some log cabin or in 
the sehoolhouse was an event of importance. The summer 
* ' camp meetings ' ' were attended by hundreds of families, 
and here a chance was given for those who had forgotten 
the ways of civilized life in the midst of the rough fron- 
tier conditions to be "converted" and to return to better 
ways. The preaching, singing, and praying were all done 
by main strength, both of voice and of muscle. 

The frontier farmer boy had no lack of occupation. 
He split the kindling and the wood for the fire-place and 
gathered the chips used for lighting the cabin when 
tallow dips were scarce. He fed and drove the cows, but 
let his sister do the milking. He took part in the work 
of washing and shearing the sheep. He helped in churn- 
ing and soap-making, and ran the melted tallow into the 
tin candle-molds. He looked forward to butchering day as 
to a celebration. In the fall he chopped the sausage meat 
and the various ingredients of mince pies. On stormy 
days and winter evenings he might help his mother clean 
and card the wool, wind the yarn, and hetchel flax. Later 
she might call upon him for help in dyeing the homespun 
and bleaching the linen. 

The boy was useful to his father when he searched the 
woods for good trees from which special articles were to 
be madv3, such as ax-helves and ox-yokes. From hickory 
saplings he could make splint brooms and cut out the 
splints m^ed in making chair bottoms and baskets. He 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 195 

guarded the corn fields from squirrels and crows and set 
traps for wolves. He went on horse-back to the grist 
mill, which was generally some miles away, and waited 
there for his turn to have his sack of corn ground into 
meal. Along with these duties were some pleasures, such 
as going nutting and berrying and hunting for grapes. 
Bee-hunting gave its rich reward in the hollow trunk full 
of honey. "Sugaring off" twice in the spring was a 
special time of delight, though it brought its tasks in the 
making of wooden spouts, the carrying of buckets of 
sap and water, and the tending of fires. 



CHARLES D. STEWART 

Charles D. Stewart was born at Zanesville, Ohio, in 1868, 
and came with his people to Wisconsin when but a young boy. 
He received his elementary education in the public schools of 
Milwaukee, after which he attended Wayland Academy at 
Beaver Dam. Like many others of our authors, Mr. Stewart 
has had considerable connection with newspapers, but it is as 
an author of stories, poems, and critical articles, both in maga- 
zines and in published volumes, that he is best known. Per- 
haps the readers of this book are already familiar with his 
"The Fugitive Blacksmith," "Partners of Providence," "Essays 
on the Spot," "The Wrong Woman," etc. He is now executive 
clerk in Governor Philipp's office. 

Mr. Stewart is an author with whom the reader frequently 
finds himself in disagreement. This is particularly true of his 
critical work, which has itself received severe criticism at the 
hands of some other critics, while in the opinion of still others 
Mr. Stewart has made distinct contributions to the field of Eng- 
lish criticism, particularly with respect to Shakespeare. His 
style is rich and at times diffuse. He has a wealth of illustrative 
material at hand, and one might be inclined to say that at 
times Mr. Stewart allows himself to stray too far from his 
main theme in drawing upon these resources. On the other 
hand, the reader is constantly interested and frequently chal- 
lenged, so that his intelligence is always brought into play .in 
reading this author's work; and it is well to remember, as 
Ruskin says, that if we never read anything with which we 
disagreed we should never grow. It is the author who makes 
us think who does us the greatest service. 

The selection here given is from "On a Moraine." It illus- 
trates all the points of which we have spoken. To the editors 
it appeals as a piece of useful, patriotic Wisconsin literature. 
The whole article will well repay reading for anyone who loves 
the Badger state and wishes to know it better. It shows a keen 
appreciation of the beautiful, and ready imagination in making 
comparisons where one least expects to find them, as in the 
suggestion of likeness between the freshly exposed surfaces of 
a newly split rock, on the one hand, and the wings of a moth 
on the other. 

The article also well illustrates the treatment of a some- 
what technical and supposedly dry subject in a delightful and 
imaginative manner. 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 197 

ON A MORAINE 

Upon the shoulder of a terminal moraine was a barley- 
field whose fence was to furnish me with stone; and I 
prospected its beauties with a six-pound sledge. "Hard- 
heads" many of them [the stones] were called, and they 
let fly enough sparks that summer to light the fire for a 
thousand years. They were igneous rocks, and they re- 
sponded in terms of fire. 

Such rocks ! Rag-carpets woven in garnet and topaz ; 
petrified Oriental rugs; granites in endless designs of 
Scotch mixture, as if each bowlder were wearing the 
plaid of its clan; big, uncouth, scabiose, ignorant-looking 
hardheads that opened with a heart of rose, — each one a 
separate album opening to a sample from a different 
quarry. I have seen cloven field-stone that deserved a 
hinge and a gold clasp ; I have one in sight now which is 
such a delicate contrast of faintest rose and mere spiritual 
green that it is like the first blush of dawn. Imagine 
smiting a rock until the fragments sting you in the face, 
and then seeing it calmly unfold the two wings of a moth 1 
I have broken into a rock which pleased me so well that 
I held it in mind in order to match it; but though I had 
the pick of a hundred and sixty loads that summ.er I 
never found another. There is ''individuality" for you. 

Some of them are ''niggerheads." These are the 
hardest rock known to practical experience. There are 
those that have refused to succumb to the strongest hit- 
ters in the country. Some of them will break and others 
will not; the only way is to try. Fortunately I had had 
some early training as a blacksmith; but this was as if 
the smith were trying to break his anvil. I have seen 
the steel face of a hammer chip off without making a mark 
on one. And yet the glaciers wore them off to make 



198 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

soil and left them rounded like big pebbles! I never 
realized what ground is, till I became acquainted with the 
stones that did the grinding. 

My fence was eight to ten feet in thickness and 
shoulder high; and similar windrows of rock ran over 
the mOraine in all directions, like a range upon a range. 
It is, of course, valuable land that warrants a wall like 
that. The barley-field might easily have defied a siege- 
gun on all four sides, for it had had so many bowlders on 
it that they had been built up into more of a rampart than 
a windrow. On a near-by field from which the timber 
had been removed, but which, notwithstanding, was far 
from "cleared," it looked as if it had hailed bowlders. 
You could have forded your way across it without putting 
a foot to ground. I have seen places where the glaciers 
had deposited rocks in surprising uniformity of size, and 
as thick as the heads of an audience (a comparison that 
means no harm, I trust). 

Because of my encounters with ''niggerheads," and 
other layerless or massive rock, I had difficulty in getting 
a handle which would not give out. Not that I broke 
them with mislicks, but the sudden bounce of the steel 
jolts the grain of the wood apart, and then a split begins 
to work its way up the handle. After this happens a 
man will not try to crack many bowlders, for the split 
hickory vibrates in a way that hurts. That sudden sting 
and numbing of the arm is the only sensation I ever came 
across that resembles the sting of a Texas scorpion; and 
that is an injection of liquid lighting that suffuses the 
membranes from hand to shoulder, and dwells a while and 
fades away. I might say here that the sting of the 
dreaded scorpion is harmless, like that of the tarantula, 
as any one with a few experiences knows. A wrong- 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 199 

headed bowlder that has kept itself intact for ages and 
spits fire at you, and then takes measures to protect it- 
self, is far more dangerous. One of them shot off a piece 
with such force that it went through my clothing and 
made a respectable wound. This, however, is just what 
is needed to rouse you up and make you hit back; and 
when you have had success with this one you are sure 
to pass on to another. 

There is an enticement in their secret, locked-up 
beauty that lures you on from rock to rock till nightfall. 
Thus you are kept at it, till some day you find you have 
become a slave of the exercise habit; you are addicted to 
sunshine and sweat and cool spring water ; your nose, so 
long a disadvantage to you, comes to life and discovers 
so many varieties of fresh air that every breath has a 
different flavor to it. As for myself, I rather prefer to 
take wild plum or clover in my atmosphere — or a good 
whiff of must off the barley-field. Along in July it is 
excellent to work somewhere in the jurisdiction of a bass- 
wood tree. Compare this with the office-building or the 
street-car, where the only obtainable breath is second- 
hand. Nobody could now coax you back to where people 
have eyes that see not, tongues that taste not, and noses 
that smell not unless they have to. I have experienced 
smells in a city that would make a baby cry. * * * 

And this reminds me to conclude — where possibly I 
should have begun — with the remarkable pedigree of the 
state itself. Stretching across Canada, north of the St. 
Lawrence, and ending in the regions about the source of 
the Mississippi, is a range of low granite hills called the 
Laurentian Highlands. These hills are really mountains 
that are almost worn out, for they are the oldest land in 
America, and, . according to Agassiz, the oldest in the 



200 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

world. In the days when there was nothing but water on 
the face of the globe, these mountains came up — a long 
island of primitive rock with universal ocean chafing 
against its shores. None of the other continents had put 
in their appearance at the time America was thus looking 
up. The United States began to come to light by the 
gradual uplifting of this land to the north and the appear- 
ance of the tops of the Alleghanies, which were the next 
in order. Later, the Rockies started up. The United 
States grew southward from Wisconsin and westward 
from Blue Ridge. An early view of the country would 
have shown a large island which is now northern Wiscon- 
sin, and a long, thin tongue of this primitive rock stick- 
ing down from Canada into Minnesota, and these two 
growing states looking out over the waters at the mere be- 
ginnings of mountain-ranges east and west. They were 
waiting for the rest of the United States to appear. 

As the heated interior of the earth continued to cool 
and contract, and the water-covered crust sank in some 
places, and kept bulging up higher in others, the island 
of northern Wisconsin continued to grow, and the Alle- 
ghanies came up with quite a strip of territory at their 
base. The western mountains made no progress what- 
ever ; it was as if they had some doubt about the matter. 
A view at another stage of progress would have shown 
Wisconsin and Minnesota entirely out, and pulling up 
with them the edges of adjoining states, and a strip along 
the Atlantic about half as wide as New York or Penn- 
sylvania. Still no United States. There was water be- 
tween these two sections and some islands scattered 
about in the south. The western mountains had not 
been progressing at all ; they lagged behind for aeons. 
These two sections, beginning with Wisconsin and Min- 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 201 

nesota in the west and the Alleghanies in the east, kept 
reaching out till they made continuous land; and thus 
Ohio and all those states between are some ages younger. . 
But they are much older than the west; for at a time 
when the whole eastern half of the continent had long 
appeared, the Gulf Stream was flowing across the west, 
and the waters were depositing the small sea-shells which 
make the calcareous matter under Kansas loam. All that 
country is much younger, and the western mountains 
are as big as they are simply because they have not had 
time to become worn down. As to Florida, it was a mere 
afterthought, an addition built on by coral insects. 

The whole story of those east-central and southern 
states — how Pennsylvania and Ohio and Illinois got their 
coal, and Michigan her salt — would make a lengthy nar- 
rative ; I have mentioned just enough to show the age 
of Wisconsin and the still greater age of some of that 
glacial matter that came down from the direction of the 
Laurentian Highlands. It is the oldest land in the world ; 
and the other states, I am sure, will not resent my taking 
out the state's pedigree and showing it. "Wisconsin took 
part with the east in what geologists call the Appalachian 
Revolution, — is a veritable Daughter of the Revolution. 
I mention it merely because I think it greatly to the credit 
of a dairy state that, at a time so early in the world's 
morning, she was up and doing. 



ELLIOTT FLOWER 

Elliott Flower is another of Wisconsin's writers who came 
into the field of literature through newspaper work. He was 
born at Madison in 1863, and after receiving a common school 
education there, he went to Phillips Academy at Massachusetts. 
He was editor of the Rambler in 1885 and 1886, and after that 
he was for some years engaged in editorial work on Chicago 
papers. Since 1899, however, most of his work has been of 
a purely literary nature, and his residence has been in Madison 
for some time. He is the author of "Policeman Flynn," "The 
Spoilsman," "Nurse Norah," "Delightful Dog," and other books. 

The story from which we quote is "The Impractical Man." 
It is fairly representative of a considerable portion of his work. 
It shows a keen sense of humor, a skillful handling of conver- 
sation, and considerable knowledge of human nature. Our se- 
lection embraces the first and last portions of the story. Be- 
tween these selections many experiences fall to the lot of the 
"impractical man." There is an adventure in the woods, in 
which the men are lost, and there are many laughable expe- 
riences in a canoe. In this story, as is frequently the case in 
Mr. Flower's work, the unexpected happens, and the character 
whom the reader has been inclined to pity because of his in- 
ability to take care of himself suddenly proves to be shrewd 
enough to outwit those with whom he is dealing. 



THE IMPRACTIOAIi MAN 

From the Century Magazine, Vol. 64, p. 549. 

'*I am sorry to inform you," said Shackelford, the 
lawyer, ''that you have been to some trouble and ex- 
pense to secure a bit of worthless paper. This— "and 
he held up the document he had been examining — '4s 
about as valuable as a copy of last week's newspaper." 

It is possible that Shackelford really regretted the 
necessity of conveying this unpleasant information to 
Peter J. Connorton, Cyrus Talbot, and Samuel D. Peyton ; 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 203 

but, if so, Ms looks belied him, for he smiled very much 
as if he found something gratifying in the situation. 

Connorton was the first to recover from the shock. 

''Then it's a swindle!" he declared hotly. ''We'll get 
that fellow Hartley! He's a crook! We'll make him — " 

"Oh, no," interrupted Shackelford, quietly, "it's no 
swindle. According to your own story, you prepared the 
paper yourself and paid him for his signature to it." 

"We paid him twenty-five thousand dollars for his 
patent," asserted Connorton. 

"But you didn't get the patent," returned Shackel- 
ford. "He has assigned to you, for a consideration of 
twenty-five thousand dollars, all his rights, title, and in- 
terest in something or other, but the assignment doesn't 
clearly show what. There are a thousand things that it 
might be, but nothing that it definitely and positively is. 
Very likely he doesn't know this, but very likely some- 
body will tell him. Anyhow, you've got to clear an 
unquestioned title before you can do anything with the 
patent without danger of unpleasant consequences." 

Deeper gloom settled upon the faces of the three, and 
especially upon the face of Connorton, who was primarily 
responsible for their present predicament. 

"What would you advise?" asked Connorton at last. 

"Well," returned the lawyer, after a moment of 
thought, "you'd better find him. As near as I can make 
out, he had no thought of tricking you. ' ' 

"Oh, no, I don't believe he had," confessed Connor- 
ton. "I spoke hastily when I charged that. He's too 
impractical for anything of the sort." 

"Much too impractical, I should say," added Talbot, 
and Peyton nodded approval. 

"In that case," pursued the lawyer, "you can still 



204 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

clinch the deal easily and quickly — if you get to him 
iirst. I see nothing particularly disturbing in the situa- 
tion, except the possibility that somebody who is practi- 
cal may get hold of him before you do, or that he may 
learn in some other way of the value of his invention. 
Do you know where he is?" 

''No," answered Connorton. "That's the trouble." 

''Not so troublesome as it might be," returned the 
lawyer. "He is not trying to hide, if we are correct in 
our surmise, and his eccentricities of dress and deport- 
ment would attract attention to him anywhere. I have a 
young man here in the office who will get track of him in 
no time, if you have nothing better to suggest. ' ' 

They had nothing better to suggest, so Byron Paul- 
son was called in, given a description of Ira Hartley, 
together with such information as to his associates and 
haunts as it was possible to give, and sent in quest of 
news of him. 

"Meanwhile," observed the lawyer, "I'll prepare 
something for his signature, when we find him, that will 
have no loopholes in it. " 



Connorton and Paulson had no difficulty in securing 
permission to talk with Hartley, and they approached 
with considerable confidence the cell in which he was de- 
tained. It had occured to them, upon reflection, that they 
were now in a most advantageous position in the matter 
of their business relations with the inventor. He was' 
friendless in a strange city. He was believed to be of 
unsound mind, and his actions had been erratic enough 
to give color to that belief. He could hardly hope to 
secure his release without their help, and if so, they could 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 205 

impose their own terms before extending that help. 

To their surprise, they found him quite cheerful and 
apparently indifferent or blind to the seriousness of his 
predicament. 

''Hullo, Connorton!" he cried, when he saw them ap- 
proaching. "Any other proposition to make now?" 

''Why, no, certainly not," replied Connorton. "We 
came to see about you. ' ' 

"Awfully good of you," laughed Hartley. "How you 
do love me, Connorton!" 

Connorton 's face reddened, but he ignored the thrust. 
"You've got yourself in a nice fix, Hartley," he re- 
marked. 

"Oh, it's of no consequence," exclaimed Paulson. 

"Not to me," asserted Hartley. "It may be to you, 
of course." 

The impractical jnan appeared to be able to take a 
very practical view of some matters, and Connorton was 
the more perturbed and uneasy in consequence. 

"They say you're crazy," suggested Connorton. 

"And I guess they can prove it, too," rejoined Hart- 
ley, cheerfully. "You've said the, same thing yourself, 
and I know you wouldn't lie about a mere trifle like that. 
Then, the conductor, the engineer, and the fireman of the 
train we came down on will swear to it * * * not to 
mention the cooper, the hotel clerk, a few bell-boys, and 
the policeman who arrested me. Yes, I guess I'm crazy, 
Connorton. Too bad, isn't it?" 

"It's likely to be bad for you," said Connorton. 

"Oh, no," returned Hartley, easily, "I'm not violent, 
you know, just mentally defective; unable to transact 
business, as you might say. They'll find that out and let 



206 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

me go ; but there will be the taint, the suspicion, the doubt. 
Very likely a conservator will be appointed when I get 
back home — some shrewd, sharp fellow, with a practical 
mind. ' ' 

Such a very impractical man was the inventor, and so 
very troublesome in his impracticality ! Connorton could 
only begin at the beginning again, and go slow. 

''Suppose we get you out," he ventured, "what would 
you be willing to do?" 

''What would you be willing to do?" retorted Hart- 
ley. 

"What do you mean by that?" demanded Connorton. 

"I'm sure I don't know," replied Hartley, with an 
air of the utmost frankness. "I seldom mean anything, 
of course, and it is such a lot of trouble to find out what 
I do mean when I mean anything that I usually give it up. 
But you are so. deeply interested in me — so much more 
interested in me than I am in myself — that I thought you 
might want to keep me sane ; that you might not like to 
feel that you had driven me crazy. ' ' 

Paulson was about to interrupt, but Connorton mo- 
tioned to him to be silent. Connorton was in the habit 
of handling his own business matters, and he wanted his 
lawyer to speak only when a legal proposition was put 
directly up to him. It may be admitted that he was 
sorely perplexed now; but he found nothing in the in- 
ventor's face but a bland smile, and he did not think 
Paulson could help him to interpret that. 

"Hartley," he said at last, "I'll get you out of here 
and add five thousand to what you've already had the 
moment that patent is properly trans;£erred to me. ' ' 

"Connorton," returned the inventor, "I believe I'm 
crazy. When I think of the events of the, last few days 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 207 

— of your more than brotherly interest in me, which I 
have pleasurably exploited during our delightful associa- 
tion — I believe I am crazy enough to say, come again!" 

Connorton drew a long breath and conceded another 
point. ''Hartley," he proposed, ''you may keep the 
money I have already given you — " 

"Thank you," said Hartley; "I shall." 

"—and you may also have a quarter interest in the 
patent, ' ' concluded Connorton. 

"It's all mine now," suggested Hartley. 

"If so," argued Connorton, who well knew that much 
of the money had been spent, "you owe me twenty-five 
thousand dollars. ' ' 

" If so, " returned Hartley, the impractical man, "I in- 
fer from your anxiety and extraordinary generosity that 
I can sell it for enough to pay you and make a little mar- 
gin for myself. Besides, you can't collect from a crazy 
man, Connorton; and I'm getting crazier every minute. 
Business always goes to my head, Connorton. You must 
have noticed that up in the woods. I'm really becoming 
alarmed about myself. But perhaps, you'd rather do busi- 
ness with a conservator, Connorton. ' ' 

"A half interest," urged Connorton, desperately, as 
he mentally reviewed the weakness of his own position 
in view of the unsuspected perspicacity of the inventor. 
"Consider that I have paid you twenty-five thousand dol- 
lars for a half interest, and the other half is yours. I'll 
defray whatever expense is incurred in marketing the 
invention, too." 

Hartley reflected, seeming in doubt. "Connorton," 
he said at last, "I think I am still getting the worst of 
it somewhere, but an impractical fellow like me deserves 
to get the worst of it. Go ahead! Have that agreement 



208 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

put in legal form, and then you may get me out while 
there is yet time to save my reason." 

Connorton had finished his appeal for the release of 
Hartley. ''Of course," he was told, "if you and Mr. 
Paulson will assume the responsibility and will imme- 
diately take him away, we shall be glad to let you have 
him ; but he is undoubtedly demented. ' ' 

"Demented!" snorted Connorton. "Say! you try to 
do business with him, and you'll think he's the sanest 
man that ever lived ! ' ' 



JENKIN LLOYD JONES. 

Jenkin Lloyd Jones is one of the best-known Wisconsin 
ministers. We say "Wisconsin," for, though he is now a 
resident of Chicago, his parents moved from South Wales to 
Wisconsin in 1843 when Jenkin Lloyd Jones was an infant. 
During his boyhood he worked on the home farm; then in 
18 G2 he enlisted, and served for three years In the Sixth 
Wisconsin Battery in the Civil War. He is a graduate of the 
Meadville, Pennsylvania, theological seminary of the class of 
1870. He holds an honorary degree of LL. D. granted by the 
University of Wisconsin in 1909. He was pastor of All Souls 
Church, Janesville, from 1871 to 1880. He established, with 
others, "Unity," a weekly paper, now organ of the Congress of 
Religion, and has been its editor since 1879. He organized 
All Souls Church in Chicago, and has been its pastor since 
1882. He is the author of almost countless pamphlets and 
several books, among the latter being "Love and Loyalty," 
"What Does Christmas Really Mean," "On the Firing Line in 
the Battle for Sobriety," and his creative instinct has shown 
itself in the organization of many societies and institutions 
for the uplift of mankind. 



NUGGETS FROM A WELSH MINE 

Copyrighted by Olive E. Weston, 1902. 
THE HOME (Page 14). 

Love is the only safe and justifiable basis for a home. 
All Bibles, as well as all stories, all philosophy and all 
experience assert this. 

Go to housekeeping, and, if possible, to house-building. 
Do not be outdone by the beaver. Do not sink lower than 
the bird, who builds its own nest, making it strong with- 
out and beautiful within. 

That home alone is home where love generates gener- 
ous impulses, noble purposes. True love will breed 



210 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

heavenly plans, nurse world-redeeming schemes, and en- 
list all the forces of earth in the interests of heaven. 

There is no home where there is no common toil. 

The world is the larger home. The child must early 
learn to feel its dependence on and its obligation to this 
larger home circle if it is to grow noble. 

There are no furnishings to a house that really con- 
vert it into a home, which have not won their places, one 
by one, in the heart and brain of the housewife. 

Civilization rests, not primarily on the court-house, or 
the college, or the public school building, or the post- 
office, or the railway station, or yet in the club, but in 
the home. 

The trouble with our young people is not that they are 
too poor in material things to make for themselves a 
home, but that they are too poor in spiritual things to 
confess the poverty which might enable them to lay the 
foundations of a home, humble but altogether holy . . . 

The beautiful heron, mad with a maternal love, blind 
to all dangers from without, bent only on protecting her 
brood, giving her life to her little ones, was killed by 
the woman who wears the graceful aigrette — that marvel 
of Nature's embroidery woven for a nuptial robe to the 
gracious bird. She, and none other, is responsible for 
that life, for it was for her sake that the bloody deed 
was done. 



THE SCHOOL (Page 29). 

The highest task that life holds for men and women 
is the choosing of an ideal to grow toward. It should be 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 211 

sufficiently far away to require a whole lifetime to pursue 
it. 

•It has taken a hundred years of agony and study to 
prove even in advanced America a man's right to his 
own body; a woman's right to her old soul; and the 
child's right to the development of his mind as of his 
muscle. 

I plead for the true perspective in the training of 
your children. I believe, of course, in good bodies, com- 
fortable and beautiful clothing, generous houses, and all 
the learning of the schools; I believe in intellectual joy 
and all the powers of thought, but only when they are 
subordinated to high affections and strong wills. 

There is a power at work in the world that estimates 
gifts, not by the amount, but by the purpose that dic- 
tated them. 

The kindergarten contains the seed of the gospel for 
children in its terminology when it seeks to develop the 
child by its "occupations" . . . 



WORK (Page 111). 

There can be no development, mental, spiritual, or 
physical, except by exercise. 

Through labor we became creators, co-workers with 
God. Labor can be transfigured into a habit. 

In the scales of the universe, a day's work will always 
weigh more than the dollar that pays for that day's 
work. 

The tradesman who strives to know all about his owrs 



212 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

business and cares but little about any other, will not 
have much business of his own to absorb his attention 
after a while. 

Blessed word is that, — "occupation." The new edu- 
cation is bound up in it. The health of the child is con- 
tained in it. The safety of the saint is represented by 
it, and the progress of humanity is dependent upon it. 

When labor becomes the pride of the laborer, then he 
becomes fit object for the envy of kings. 

The most disordered explosions of pent-up passions 
and unreleased power follow in the wake of enforced 
idleness. 

There is no release from toil, and the only escape 
from the burdens of labor must come, not by its cessa- 
tion, but by its glorification. 

There is an overwork that is killing, but the danger 
from work, any work, all work, is trifling compared to 
the greater dangers of indolence. 

There is always a large physical element in distances. 
It is always farther from the breakfast table to the field 
than it is from the field to the dinner table. 

When the wheels of life bear me down for the last 
time, I ask for no higher compliment, I seek no truer 
statement of the. work I have tried to do, than that which 
the white-headed old negress gave the beardless boy on 
the hot Corinth cornfield in 1862. Then, if I deserve it, 
let some one who loves me say, ''Here is a Linkum soldier 
who has done got run over," one who, like his leader, 
tried to "pluck a thistle and plant a flower wherever a 
flower would grow." 



EVERETT McNEIL. 



MOTHER'S WOLF STORY 



By Everett McNeil, for many years a resident of Stoughton, Wis., 
now living in New York. Taken from St. Nicholas, Vol. XXX, 
p. 387. Copyright by The Century Co. 

(For many years a resident of Stoughton; now living in New York. 

Author of The Cave of Gold, In Texas with Davy Crockett, 

The Totem of Black Hawk, Fighting with Fremont, 

The Boy Forty-Niners, etc.) 

When I was a boy there was one story which my sisters 
and brothers and I were never tired or hearing mother 
tell ; for our own mother was its heroine and the scene of 
the thrilling chase was not more than a mile and a half 
from our own door. Indeed, we often went coasting on 
the very hill down which she took her fearful ride, and 
skated on the pond which was the scene of her adventure. 
I can still distinctly remember how, when the long winter 
evenings came and the snow lay deep on the ground and 
the wind whistled stormily without, we children would 
gather around the great sheet-iron stove in the sitting- 
room of the old farm-house and beg mother to tell us 
stories of the perils and hardships of her pioneer days; 
and how, invariably, before the evening was over some 
one of us would ask : ''Now, mother, please do tell us, just 
once more, how you escaped from the wolves, when a 
girl, by coasting down Peek's Hill." 

Mother would pause in her knitting, and, with a smile, 
declare that she had already told us the story ''forty- 
eleven times ' ' ; but, just to please so attentive an audience, 
she would tell it even once more. Then, while we children 
crowded closer around her chair, she would resume her 
knitting and begin: 



21,4 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

''When your grandfather settled in this part of "Wis- 
consin I was a little girl thirteen years old. We moved 
into the log house father had prepared for us early in 
the spring, and by fall we had things fixed quite comfort- 
able. The winter which followed was one of unusual 
severity. The snow fell, early in November, to the depth 
of three feet on the level; and the greater part of it re- 
mained on the ground all winter. This, of course, made 
grand coasting. Father made for me a sled with strong, 
hard, smooth hickory runners, and big enough for two to 
ride on. I declare, I don't believe there ever was such 
another sled for speed"; and mother's eyes would sparkle 
at the memories the thought of her faithful sled recalled. 

''At this time the country was very thinly populated. 
Our nearest neighbor was Abner Jones, who lived some 
three miles away, over on the other side of Peek's Hill. 
Abner Jones had a little girl, named Amanda, about my 
own age, and we two children soon became great chums. 
After a big snow-storm, Amanda and I would go coasting 
on Peek's Hill whenever we could gain the permission 
of our parents. She would come over to my house, or I 
would go over to her house, and together we would go 
to the hill. Amanda had no sled ; but we could both ride 
down on my sled, and then take turns pulling it up 
the hill. 

"The first week in January there was a two-days' 
thaw, followed by a sharp freeze. This caused a thick, icy 
crust to form on top of the remaining snow, which, by the 
next day, became so hard and strong that it would bear 
the weight of a man. The water from the melted snow 
ran into- the hollow at the foot of Peek's Hill, and made 
a large, deep pond, which was soon covered over with 
a sheet of gleaming ice. So, you see. Peek's Hill had be- 
come an ideal coasting-place ; for we could slide down 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 215 

its steep side at lightning speed, and out upon the ice, 
and even clear across the pond, a good three-quarters of 
a mile from the top of the hill. 

''On one Saturday afternoon following a thaw and a 
freeze-up, I secured the permission of my parents to go 
over to Amanda's and get her to come sliding with me 
down the hill. Father cautioned me to be sure and be 
home early, because the wolves, which at that time in- 
fested all this section of the country, were said to be get- 
ting very bold and fierce, especially at night time; and 
they had been known, Avhen driven by hunger, to run 
down and kill horses and cattle and even human beings. 
Doubtless the cold and the deep snow had forced many 
southward from the great woods in the northern part of 
the State. But the caution fell on idle ears. I considered 
all wolves cowards ; besides, I was not going to hunt 
wolves; I was bent upon coasting down-hill; and I did 
not believe any wolf would be foolish enough to take 
the trouble to run down a little girl when there were 
plenty of chickens and cattle to be had. 

"1 bundled up warmly, and, drawing my sled behind 
me, started 'cross lots over Peek's Hill to Amanda's 
house. Peek's Hill stood about half-way between our 
two homes. I left the heavy sled at the top of the hill 
to wait our return. "When I reached the house I found 
Amanda laid up with a bad cold, and of course her 
mother would not allow her to go coasting ; so I took off 
my things to stay in the house and play with her. Amanda 
had two rubber dolls, and we had such a jolly time play- 
ing with them that I did not notice how fast the time was 
passing until Mrs. Jones said, 'Come, my dear; it is time 
you were going !' Then she helped to bundle me up, gave 
me a doughnut hot from the kettle, and saw me safely 
started on my way home. 



216 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

' ' The sun was Hearing the western horizon. I glanced 
at it and hurried on. The first part of my way lay through 
heavy woods; then came an opening, in the midst of 
which rose Peek's Hill. The brow of the hill was per- 
haps forty rods from the edge of the woods, the steep 
incline down which we coasted being on the opposite 
side. There was no road, only a path worn through the 
snow by our neighborly feet. 

'^I had passed about half-way through the woods, 
when suddenly a great shaggy wolf bounded out into 
the path in front of me. The wolf stopped and glared 
hungrily at me for a moment, then dashed away into the 
brush. A moment after, I heard him howling a few rods 
in the rear. To my inexpressible horror, the howl was 
quickly answered by another, and then another, and still 
another, until to my terrified ears the woods seemed full 
of the ferocious beasts. 

"There was no need of telling me what this meant. 
I was old enough and familiar enough with wolf-nature 
to know that the first wolf was calling to his mates to 
come and help him run down and kill his quarry. 

''For a moment I stood still in my tracks, listening in 
trembling horror to the hideous bowlings ; then I gathered 
myself together and ran. Fear lent me wings. My feet 
seemed hardly to touch the snow. And yet it was but a 
minute before I heard the rapid pit-pat of the feet of the 
wolves on the hard crust of the snow behind me, and 
knew that they were drawing near. I reached the edge 
of the woods; and, as I dashed into the opening, I cast 
a hurried glance to the rear. Several great, gaunt wolves, 
running neck and neck, were not five rods behind me. 
They ran with their heads outstretched, making great 
bounds over the hard snow. 

"At that time I was tall for my age, and could run 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 217 

like a deer. The sight of the wolves, so close behind me, 
caused me to redouble my efforts; but, in spite of my 
speed, as I reached the brow of the hill, I could hear their 
panting breaths, so near had they come. "With a quick 
movement of my hands I threw off my heavy cloth cape 
and woolen hood. At the same instant my eyes caught 
sight of the sled, which I had left at the top of the hill. 
Fortunately it was standing facing the steep incline. If 
I could reach it before the wolves caught me, possibly I 
might yet escape! My hood and cape delayed the ani- 
mals for ah instant; but they were again upon me just 
as I, without slacking my speed in the least, caught the 
sled up into my hands and threw myself upon it. 

''I think the sudden change in my position, just as 
they were about to spring on me, must have disconcerted 
the wolves for an instant ; and before they recovered I 
was sliding down the hill. The wolves came tumbling and 
leaping after me, howling and snarling. At the start, 
the hill was very steep, and the frozen snow was as 
smooth and as slippery as ice. The sled kept going faster 
and faster, and soon I had the inexpressible delight of 
seeing that I was beginning to leave the wolves behind. 
Far below I saw the gleaming ice on the pond. About 
half-way down the hill the incline was considerably less 
steep, becoming nearly level just before reaching the 
pond. When I came to this part of the hill I again 
glanced behind, and, to my horror, saw that the wolves 
had begun to gain on me, and were now not more than 
two rods away. Evidently the sled was slowing up. 
There was nothing I could do to quicken its motion. My 
fate seemed certain. At last the sled reached the pond, 
and, while still but a few feet from the bank, T suddenly 
felt the ice bend and crack beneath me; but either my 
speed was too rapid or my weight too light, or both, for 



218 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

I did not break through, but sped swiftly on to stronger 
ice and to safety. For a moment the slippery ice delayed 
the wolves, then they came on swifter than ever, their 
sharp claws scratching the ice like knives. Finally 1 
heard a crash, and glancing back, I saw a struggling 
jumble of heads and paws, and I knew in a moment that 
the combined weight of the wolves had broken through 
the ice at the weak place that had cracked as I passed 
over it. 

"I left the sled at the margin of the pond, and hur- 
ried home, where, girl-like, I fell fainting into my 
mother's arms. 

''There, children; that is how your mother escaped 
from the wolves by coasting down Peek's Hill; and that 
great wolfskin robe in the corner is one of the very hides 
that father took from the six bodies after he had dragged 
them out of the pond the next morning"; and mother, 
with a flush on her dear face, would point to the familiar 
wolfskin robe. 

Then we children would bring the great robe from 
its place, spread it out on the floor before the fire, and, 
seating ourselves upon it, talk in low voices of the terri- 
ble ride our dear mother took down Peek's Hill when 
she was a girl and was chased by the wolves. 



THE UNIVERSITY GROUP 



The selections here placed together under the head, "The 
University Group," are taken from the works of authors who 
have taught or who are now teaching in the University of Wis- 
consin, and who may, therefore, be said both to have influenced 
it in its ideals and to have been influenced by it. The work of 
the editors in this section of the volume has been at once 
peculiarly pleasant and difflcult. It has been pleasant because, 
under the shadow of Wisconsin's greatest institution of learn- 
ing, there has come into birth a large body of interesting, in- 
structive, and thoroughly worth-while literary material. The 
task has been difficult because the line between technical and 
special material treated in a literary way, and what may be 
styled pure literature, is very hard to draw. The editors realize 
thoroughly their fallibility in the making of these selections. 
So many books have been written, and so many contributions 
to both popular and technical magazines have been made by 
teachers in the University, that it is a physical impossibility 
even to scan them with any sure result of fairness or equity 
in the selection of real literature from the great mass that has 
been produced. The most that is claimed for the present selec- 
tions is that at least they are thoroughly worth-while. No 
doubt a search covering sufficient time and dealing with a suf- 
ficiently large portion of the output of the University would 
reveal other works and other men worthy of representation in 
this volume. 

There is another consideration that should be mentioned as 
rendering the task of the present editors peculiarly difflcult: 
All but one of the men whose works are mentioned here are 
now living. Aside from the impossibility of wholly pleasing 
any man by a selection 'from or a criticism of his work, there is 
the inevitable fact that since most of these men are young, 
their actual relative standing as producers of literature is con- 
stantly and rapidly changing. As one reads the selections in 
the following pages, he is impressed most of all by the spirit 
of buoyancy and youth that pervades them. Scarcely a single 
selection here, even those by the older men, bears the imprint 
of satiety or completion. All are pulsing with life, hopefulness, 
buoyancy, and promise. 

Again, in a book of this nature, selections must necessarily 



220 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

be brief. It is not possible to give really adequate representa- 
tion to any one of these men, since the laws of space are in- 
exorable. 

Perhaps the one thing common to all sections in this group 
— the thing which will most readily and profoundly impress 
even the youngest reader— is a feeling of breadth of expe- 
rience, wide observation, earnest, keen, and insatiable desire 
for truth, — in fact, all the opposites of narrowness, prejudice, 
provincialism. One feels at once that the writers here have 
read widely and well, that they have a fund of facts gained both 
from books and at first hand through travel and observation, 
and that their emotions and their judgments spring from this 
well of truth as they see it. 

PRESIDENT VAN HISE 

Charles Richard Van Hise needs no introduction to Wis- 
consin readers, nor indeed to readers in any part of America. 
He is a man whom our state may proudly call her own. He 
was born in Fulton in 1857, took his bachelor's degree in 
mechanical engineering at his own State University in 1879 
and his Ph. D. there in 1892, and throughout his whole life, 
since receiving his first degree, he has been in the faculty of 
his own Alma Mater. In 19 03 he was made its president, which 
position he now holds. 

He is recognized by all as the peer of any man in our coun- 
try as an authority on geology. His face, through photographs 
appearing from time to time in public prints, is familiar to us 
all; while in Madison, and indeed in most cities of the state, 
his slightly bent figure, with the face peering forward as 
though seeking some new truth, would be readily recognized 
by any schoolboy. 

When at Madison one of his favorite diversions is riding 
horseback, and no doubt in many of his geological trips horses 
have been his most dependable friends. 

Needless to say, his interests are wide and varied. Nothing 
that affects the welfare of his country and its people is outside 
the field of his attention. Through his membership in many 
learned societies and his connection with various educational 
bodies and institutions he wields an influence for the spirit of 
truth and enlightenment second to almost none in the United 
States. 

We quote here a brief passage from his writings to indicate 
something of the range of interests the mind and heart of Wis- 
consin's most active citizen find time in which to interest them- 
selves. While President Van Hise's interests are not primarily 
literary, any man of fine sensibilities and intelligence, placed 
as he is, at the center of momentous events, is bound to have 
a message of vital import; and any such message, clearly and 
suitably delivered, is literature. 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 221 

THE FUTURE OF MAN IN AMERICA 

By Charles R. "Van Hise, published in the World's Work, Vol. 
XVIII, p. 11718. 

* * * It is clear that the problem of the conserva- 
tion of our natural resources is an interlocking one. If 
the forests are conserved in the rough lands and moun- 
tains, the streams will have an even flow, their naviga- 
bility will be easily maintained, they will give a uniform 
water-power ; the erosion of the soil will be lessened ; the 
bottom lands along the stream will not be flooded. If 
the water-powers are developed, the consumption of coal 
will be lessened. If the elements which are changed from 
ore to metals are carefully saved — not being allowed to 
rust or to be lost — and thus utilized again and again, it 
will not be necessary to take from the mines so large an 
amount of ore, and thus less coal and power will be re- 
quired for their extraction. The conservation of one re- 
source assists in the conservation of all others. We 
should work with the agents of the earth rather than 
reverse their work, as we have been doing since American 
settlement began. 

Intimately connected with the conservation of the 
natural resources is the conservation of humanity itself. 
Just as we have been reckless in the use of our natural 
resources, so as a nation have we been reckless of human 
life. We now know enough in reference to the preven- 
tion and cure of communicable diseases, we know enough 
in reference to improving the conditions under which the 
industries are carried on, so that, according to Professor 
Irving Fisher, the average human life might be length- 
ened by a third. 

So far as we permit human beings to be created, it is 
plainly our duty to conserve them and, so far as possible. 



222 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

produce a happy environment for them. This great prob- 
lem of the conservation of humanity is mentioned merely 
to put it in relation with the problems of the conservation 
of our natural resources, rather than to discuss it. 

How long shall this nation endure ? Or, more exactly, 
how long shall human beings occupy this land? It is only 
within the past two centuries that the lands of the country 
have been subject to agriculture upon an extensive scale, 
and the main drafts upon the soil of this country have 
been within the last century. We should think, not of a 
hundred years, or of a thousand years, but of hundreds 
of thousands, or of millions of years of development of 
the human race. There is no reason, from a geological 
point of view, why human beings may not live upon this 
earth for millions of years to come, perhaps many millions 
of years, and, so far as we are concerned, such periods 
are practically infinite. 

These considerations impose upon us as our most fun- 
damental duty the transmission of the heritage of our 
natural resources to our descendants as nearly intact as 
possible. This is an individual responsibility, as well as a 
state and a national responsibility. There's a strongly de- 
veloped opinion at the present time that the owners of 
great wealth, and especially those who control great nat- 
ural resources, should act as trustees for the nation. This 
is easy to see ; but every man who owns a farm is equally 
a trustee to the nation for his small property. If at the 
end of his life the farm goes to his son depleted in rich- 
ness, he is as truly faithless to his trust as are the great 
interests, some of which think only of present gain, and 
wastefuUy exploit the natural resources of the country. 
Each in proportion to his own responsibility is a traitor to 
the nation. At the present time, fortunately, this sense 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 223 

of stewardship is gaining possession of those who control 
some of the great resources of the nation. As yet, there 
is scarcely a glimmering of responsibility in the case of 
the smaller holder of natural resources. But the future of 
the nation is safe only when small and large holder alike, 
from the man who owns forty acres of land to the groups 
of men who control the anthracite of the nation, shall 
administer their trust primarily for the benefit of the 
people now living and for succeeding generations rathei' 
than for themselves. 

I do not hesitate to assert that, from the point of view 
of our descendants, this question of conservation of our 
natural resources is more important than any political or 
social question, indeed, more important than all political 
or social questions upon the solution of which we are now 
engaged. Not only is it more important, but it is more 
pressing, for already our unnecessary losses are irre- 
mediable, and the situation is growing steadily worse. 

It is necessary that a great campaign of education be 
inaugurated at once with reference to the conservation 
of the soil, just as there has been a campaign of educa- 
tion witli reference to the conservation of the forests. The 
task is an enormous one, indeed vastly greater than that 
carried on with reference to our other resources, be- 
cause of the fact that the land holdings are so subdivided ; 
but the campaign of education must be carried on, and, 
as a part of it, the laws must be developed, until we reach 
the situation where no man dares so to handle his land 
as to decrease its fertility. If present methods are al- 
lowed to continue, it is certain that in the not distant 
future this country will be able to support only a rela- 
tively sparse population. Only by the conservation of 
our soil, undiminished in its fertility, can we hope to be 



224 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

able to provide for the hundreds of millions of people who, 
in the near future in the United States, will be demanding 
food and clothing. The conservation of the soil is the 
conservation of the basal asset of the nation. 

Similarly, the campaign of education in reference to 
the forests must be continued, and that with reference to 
the coal and mineral resources inaugurated; for only 
second in importance to the conservation of the soil is the 
economic mining and use of coal, the conservation of the 
forests, and the use of metals with the minimum waste. 



DEAN BIRGE 

Edward Asahel Birge was born in Troy, New York, in 1851. 
He received his collegiate training at Williams and HaTrvard 
and was made instructor in natural history at the University 
of Wisconsin in 1875, professor in 1879, and Dean of the Col- 
lege of Letters and Science in 1891, which position he has held 
down to the present time, except for three years when he 
served as Acting President. 

No one among all the professors is better known to the 
students of the University of Wisconsin than Dean Birge. His 
active figure, his firm step, his (now) white hair, which, when 
the writer went to school, was but iron-gray, his keen eye, 
have all come to be institutional and fundamental at the Uni- 
versity of Wisconsin. No undergraduate who has gone tremb- 
lingly before Dean Birge to get his excuse for being late to 
his first class after the Christmas holidays will need a descrip- 
tion of Dean Birge's eye. No one ever thinks of trying to 
deceive the Dean. 

But withal, nothing could be more unfair than to give the 
notion that keenness is the only quality in that eye. Kindness 
is there, too, and above all, justice. We who were under- 
graduates at Madison, always think of Dean Birge as a scholar 
in his chosen line and as a school administrator. It will be a 
surprise to many to know of his keen interest in literature. 
The writer ventures to say that one will look some time before 
he finds, from the pen of the best-trained specialist in English, 
a fairer estimate of Milton than the one here given by this 
biologist. 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 225 

MILTON 

Introductory remarks at the celebration of tlxe tercentenary anni- 
versary of Milton's birth, held at the University of Wisconsin, 
December 9, 1908. 

Perhaps I am wrong in permitting myself to say any- 
thing beyond the formal words which belong to my office 
tonight. I am sure that I have no right to join in the 
tribute which today the world offers to Milton, beyond 
that which belongs to every one v/ho did not need to 
knock the dust from his copy of the poems when this 
tercentenary anniversary approached. Yet if I had the 
power to praise, I should attempt the task. 

"If my inferior hand or voice could hint 
Inimitable things" 
I would add my words to those of more discriminating 
praise. But if I speak at all, it must be as one of Milton's 
readers, not as his critic, still less as his judge; not even' 
as his eulogist. Perhaps I may speak also as a descendant 
of the men and women who made up that Puritan com- 
monwealth from which he was born and to which at bot- 
tom he belonged; as a descendant of men and women, 
stern, god-fearing, theology-loving, yet very human; 
mostly commonplace people ; not sensitive to art or caring 
much about it, yet capable of being profoundly moved by 
the greatest poetry. I may speak in the name of those 
who for generations kept Milton second only to the Bible 
in their knowledge and as belonging to a generation which 
today finds Milton next beyond the Bible in its ignorance. 
I may represent in some sort that public which long 
cherished him but which today leaves him to the few 
lovers of poetry on the one side, and on the other, must 
have converted him to a post-mortem belief in purgatory 
by condemning him to a place among the authors as- 
signed for ''intensive study" in secondary schools. 

I cannot find it in my heart to blame my fellows 



226 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

severel}^ for their present neglect of Milton. When we 
read the introductory lines of the Aeneid — for onr small 
Latin extends so far as this — and the triumphant final 
words: "atque altae moenia Bomae" "burst out into sud- 
den blaze, ' ' then in that quick vision of the walls of lofty 
Rome we catch some hint of that spirit which made the 
poem the bible of the Roman state. And when we find 
the introduction to Paradise Lost closing with the promise 
that the author will "justify the ways of God to man," 
we feel that temper in the poem which made it at once 
the holier bible of the Puritan and prevented it from be- 
coming the bible of the English speaking race for all 
time. 

But we of the stock from which Milton came have not 
all deserted the poet. Some of us still read his verse, 
though not for the poem so much as for the poetry, which 
in his hands became the 

"golden key- 
That opes the palace of eternity." 
We do not find our Milton in his earlier poems; for, 
charming as they are, they lack that note of strong per- 
sonality and endless power which our ear first catches in 
Lyeidas : 

"Ay me! Whilst thee the shores and sounding seas 
Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurled, 
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, 
Where thou, perhaps, under the whelming tide 
Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world; 
Or whether thou to our moist vows denied, 
Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, 
Where the great vision of the guarded Mount 
Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold — " 
Here is the true music of Milton's verse; a deep, long- 
drawn note, a solemn cadence ; far from the ' ' wanton heed 
and giddy cunning" of the music which untwists the 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 227 

chains of harmony, and equally distant from heaven's 
calm serenity of choral symphonies and "undisturbed 
song of pure content. ' ' This music sounds in the Paradise 
Lost, less emotional perhaps, but purer and higher; ap- 
pealing to ear and soul in complex and interwoven har- 
monies of thought and verse. We hear it still in the 
Samson; austere, intellectualized ; the scheme of music 
rather than music itself; still resonant though not re- 
sounding. We have no skill to compare this music with 
that of other poets; but this we know, that while its 
harmonies linger in our ears all other verse rings poor and 
thin. We hear no voice but Milton's which can bear the 
praise of his own words: "praesentem sonat vox ipsa 
Deum" — its very note proclaims the present God. 

Nor is this all. Milton's verse moves us as does that 
of no other poet. I do not mean that it moves us to 
laughter or even to tears. I mean rather that it moves 
our souls bodily, if such a thing may be. As we read it, 
we find ourselves committed to a power not so much 
buoyant as illimitable. The verse bears us aloft and 
carries us forward-; not swiftly, slowly rather ; advancing, 
to our increased happiness, not directly, but with many a 
pause and turn ; yet steadily and powerfully pressing on 
toward a goal certain and far-seen. We know not 
whether Milton's poetry accomplished 

"Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme"; 
but at least we must confess for ourselves that it illumines 
our darkness and raises and supports us as does no other 
verse. 

And so we, who in some far off sense belong to Mil- 
ton's people, join tonight with you who have the right 
to praise his name. Yet it may be that in so doing we 
are thinking rather of ourselves than of any tribute that 



228. WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

you or we can bring to him. "We know that your com- 
memorative words will renew our knowledge and quicken 
our hearts. "We hope that, hearing them, we may feel the 
presence of those 

"immortal shades 
Of brigtit aerial spirits" 
who ever attend Milton's verse; perhaps we even hope 
that our clearer vision may catch some new glimpse of 
Milton himself — our poet — wearing "the crown that 
Vertue gives" and sitting 

"Amongst the enthroned gods on sainted seats." 



RASMUS BJ8RNE ANDERSON 

"Rasmus B. Anderson" is a name that has been familiar 
to all University of Wisconsin students and to all people of 
Scandinavian parentage throughout the Northwest for at least 
two score years. This fine old man is a true son of Wisconsin. 
He was born in Albion, Wisconsin, of Norwegian parents, in 
1846. He received an honorary A. B. from the University of 
Wisconsin in 1885, and the title of L. L. D. from the same in- 
stitution in 188 8. He was professor of Scandinavian languages 
and literature here from 1875 to 1883, when he resigned to 
serve as minister to Denmark. He has translated scores of 
selections from Scandinavian languages into English, and is 
the editor of almost countless articles of an historical, linguis- 
tic, literary, and philosophical nature. Now, at the age of 
seventy, his friends know him as a kindly, busy man with an 
active and keen interest in all about him. He is at present 
serving in an editorial capacity on the boards of different 
journals and encyclopedias. 

The selection here given was one of the earliest that he 
published. It breathes the spirit of enthusiasm and love for 
the land of his fathers, but at the same time shows his careful 
citation of evidence to support his every assertion. 

BJARNE HERJULFSON, 986 

From "AMERICA, NOT DISCOVERED BY COLUMBUS." Chapter 
X. By Rasmus B. Anderson. Copyright, 1883, by S. C. Griggs 
& Co. 

In the year 986, the same j'-ear that he returned from ■ 
G-reenland, the above-named Erik the Red moved from 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 229 

Iceland to Greenland, and among Ms numerous friends, 

who accompanied him, was an Icelander by name Herjulf. 
Herjulf had a son by name Bjarne, who was a man of 
enterprise and fond of going abroad, and who possessed 
a merchant-ship, with which he gathered wealth and repu- 
tation. He used to be by turns a year abroad and a year 
at home with his father. He chanced to be away in 
Norway when his father moved over to Greenland, and 
on returning to Iceland he was so much disappointed on 
hearing of his father's departure with Erik, that he would 
not unload his ship, but resolved to follow his old custom 
and take up his abode with his father. "Who will go with 
me to Greenland?" he said to his men. "We will all go 
with you," replied the men. "But we have none of us 
ever been on the Greenland Sea before," said Bjarne. 
"We mind not that," said the men,— so away they sailed 
for three days and lost sight of Iceland. Then the wind 
failed. After that a north wind and fog set in, and they 
knew not where they were sailing to. This lasted many 
days, until the sun at length appeared again, so that they 
could determine the quarters of the sky, and lo ! in the 
horizon they saw, like a blue cloud, the outlines of an 
unknown land. They aproached it. They saw that it 
was without mountains, was covered with wood, and that 
there were small hills inland. Bjarne saw that this did 
not answer to the description of Greenland ; he knew he 
was too far south; so he left the land on the larboard 
side and sailed northward two days, when they got sight 
of land again. The men asked Bjarne if this was Green- 
land; but he said it was not, "For in Greenland," he 
said, "there are great, snowy mountains; but this land is 
flat and covered with trees." They did not go ashore, 
but turning the bow from the land, they kept the sea with 



230 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

a fine breeze from the southwest for three days, when a 
third land was seen. Still Bjarne would not go ashore, for 
it was not like what had been reported of Greenland. So 
they sailed on, driven by a violent southwest wind, and 
after four days they reached a land which suited the 
description of Greenland. Bjarne was not deceived, for 
it was Greenland, and he happened to land close to the 
place where his father had settled. 

It cannot be determined with certainty what parts of 
the American coast Bjarne saw; but from the circum- 
stances of the voyage, the course of the winds, the direc- 
tion of the currents, and the presumed distance between 
each sight of land, there is reason to believe that the first 
land that Bjarne saw in the year 986 was the present 
Nantucket, one degree south of Boston ; the second Nova 
Scotia, and the third Newfoundland. Thus Bjarne Her- 
julfson was the first European whose eyes beheld any part 
of the present New England. 

REUBEN GOLD THWAITES 

Reuben Gold Thwaites was born in Massachusetts in 1853. 
When twenty-three years of age he came to Madison, Wiscon- 
sin, to act as editor of the Wisconsin State Journal. Just ten 
years later he was made secretary and superintendent of the 
State Historical Society of Wisconsin, in which capacity he 
served until his death in 1913. 

All students of history in the University of Wisconsin 
knew Mr. Thwaites, for no doubt partly through his influence, 
instructors in history impressed upon the young men and 
women in their classes the conception of history as being al- 
ways in the making. To many a student who had always 
thought of history as being something written in books this 
new conception came as a great awakening. He urged upon 
all with whom he came in contact the importance of recording 
local events, and he had an extraordinarily keen sense of ten- 
dencies and activities in his state that were really vital and 
significant. 

The State Historical Library at Madison contains thousands 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 231 

of newspaper clippings, little pamphlets, letters by obscure 
people, apparently unimportant legal or official documents that 
were gathered by Reuben Gold Thwaites, and that now form 
the priceless sources of the history of the state. The services 
of such a man to his community cannot be reckoned commer- 
cially. The state knows itself better, understands its ideals 
more thoroughly, and furnishes to its students a fund of incon- 
trovertible facts on which to base their study, because it pos- 
sessed a citizen like Reuben Gold Thwaites. 

THE DISCOVERY OF WISCONSIN 

Prom "STORIES OF THE BADGER STATE," pp. 27-32. By Reu- 
ben Gold Thwaites. Copyright. 1900, by the author. 

Among the many queer stories brought [to Quebec] 
by these fierce, painted barbarians [the Indians] was one 
which told of a certain "Tribe of the Sea" dwelling far 
away on the western banks of the ''upper waters," a 
people who had come out of the "West, no man knew 
whence. In those early days, Europeans still clung to 
the notion which Columbus had always held, that America 
was but an eastern projection of Asia. This is the reason 
that our savages were called Indians, for the discoverers 
of America thought they had merely reached an outlying 
portion of India; they had no idea that this was a great 
and new continent. Governor Champlain, and after him 
Governor Frontenac, and the great explorer La Salle, all 
supposed that they could reach India and China, already 
known to travelers to the east, by persistently going west- 
ward. When, therefore, Champlain heard of these strange 
Men of the Sea, he at once declared they must be the 
long-sought Chinese. He engaged Nicolet, in whom he 
had great confidence, to go out and find them, wherever 
they were, making a treaty of peace with them, and secure 
their trade. 

Upon the first day of July, 1634, Nicolet left Quebec, 
a passenger in the second of two fleets of canoes con- 
taining Indians from the Ottawa valley, who had come 



232 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

down to the white settlements to trade. Among his fel- 
low passengers were three adventurous Jesuit mission- 
aries, who were on their way to the country of the Huron 
tribe, east of Lake Huron. Leaving the priests at Al- 
lumettes Island, he continued up the Ottawa, then crossed 
over to Lake Nipissing, visited old friends among the 
Indians there, and descended French Creek, which flows 
from Lake Nipissing into Georgian Bay, a northeastern 
.arm of Lake Huron. On the shores of the great lake, he 
engaged seven Hurons to paddle his long birch-bark canoe 
and guide him to the mysterious "Tribe of the Sea." 

Slowly they felt their way along the northern shores 
of Lake Huron, where the pine forests sweep majestically 
down to the water's edge, or crown the bold cliffs, while 
southward the green waters of the inland sea stretch 
away to the horizon. Storms too severe for their frail 
craft frequently detained them on the shore, and daily 
they sought food in the forest. The savage crew, tiring 
of exercise, and overcome by superstitious fears, would 
fain have abandoned the voyage ; but the strong, energetic 
master bore down all opposition. At last they reached the 
outlet of Lake Superior, the forest-girt Strait of St. Mary, 
and paddled up as far as the falls, the Sault Ste. Marie, 
as it came to be called by the Jesuit missionaries. Here 
there was a large village of Algonkins, where the explorer 
tarried, refreshing his crew and gathering information 
concering the ''Tribe of the Sea." The explorers do not 
appear to have visited Lake Superior; but, bolder than 
before, they set forth to the southwest, and passing gayly 
through the island-dotted Straits of Mackinac, now one of 
the world's greatest highways, were soon upon the broad 
waters of Lake Michigan, of which Nicolet was probably 
the first white discoverer. 



ONOS QNV AHOI.S NI NISNOOSIM 233 

Clinging still to the northern shore, camping in the 
dense woods at night or when threatened by storm, Nico- 
let rounded far-fetching Point Detour, and landed upon 
the shores of Bay de Noquet, a northern arm of Green 
Bay. Another Algonkin tribe dwelt here, with whom the 
persistent explorer smoked the pipe of peace, and they 
gave him further news of the people he sought. Next he 
stopped at the mouth of the Menominee River, now the 
northeast boundary between Wisconsin and Michigan, 
where the Menominee tribe lived. Another council was 
held, more tobacco was smoked, and one of Nicolet's 
Huron companions was sent forward to notify the Winne- 
bagoes at the mouth of the Fox River that the great white 
chief was approaching; for the uncouth Winnebagoes 
were the far-famed ''Tribe of the Sea" whom Nicolet had 
traveled so far to find. * * * 

By this time, Nicolet had his doubts about meeting 
Chinese at Green Bay. As, however, he had brought with 
him "a grand robe of China damask, all strewn with 
flowers, and birds of many colors," such as Chinese man- 
darins are supposed to wear, he put it on; and when he 
landed on the shore of Fox River, where is now the city 
of Green Bay, strode forward into the group of waiting, 
skin-clad savages, discharging the pistols which he held 
in either hand. Women and children fled in terror to the 
wigwams; and the warriors fell down and worshipped 
this Manitou (or spirit) who carried with him thunder 
and lightning. 

''The news of his coming," says the old Jesuit 
chronicler, "quickly spread to the places round about, 
and there assembled four or five thousand men. Each of 
the Chief men made a feast for him, and at one of these 
banquets they served at least six-score Beavers." * * * 



234 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

For various reasons, it was nearly thirty years before 
another visit was made by white men to Wisconsin. Nico- 
let himself soon settled down at the new town of Three 
Rivers, on the shores of the St. Lawrence, between 
Quebec and Montreal, as the agent and interpreter there 
of the great fur trade company. He was a very useful 
man both to the company and to the missionaries; for he 
had great influence over the Indians, who loved him sin- 
cerely, and he always exercised this influence for the good 
of the colony and of religion. He was drowned in the 
month of October, 1642, while on his way to release a 
poor savage prisoner who was being maltreated by Indians 
in the neighborhood. 



FREDERICK JACKSON TURNER 

Born in Portage, Wisconsin, in 1861, Frederick J. Turner 
was graduated from the State University in 1884, and six years 
later he received his Ph. D. from Johns Hopkins. Meantime 
he had spent some of the years in teaching in his Alma Mater. 
He was made full professor of history in 1892, which position 
he held until 1910, when Harvard University called him. 

Few men on "The Hill" were more beloved by the students 
than "Freddie" Turner. His courses were crowded, and his 
lectures were exceedingly popular. Perhaps if his students 
had known that from 1885 to 1888 he servea as tutor in rhet- 
oric and oratory at Wisconsin, they would not have wondered 
so much at the eloquence of his lectures. 

But eloquence was not the main feature of his lectures, 
nor yet the quality he most desired in the recitations of his 
students. Woe betide the young man who had spent too little 
time upon the "constitutional period," and who tried to give 
this argus-eyed instructor the impression of deep and careful 
study. The bubble was sure to be pricked, and the discom- 
fiture of the ambitious one was, while frequently laughable, 
always unmistakable. One never knew when he was going to 
be "quizzed" in "Freddie's" class. But one thing was certain: 
that was that he would be asked a question, and when that 
question came it was best, from every point of view, to be able 
to do good, clear, straight thinking, based on a fund of re- 
ligiously acquired information. One quality that Professor 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 235 

Turner exacted of liimself and others was tliat assertions must 
be backed up by evidence. Perhaps that is not the least im- 
portant reason why the article from which a selection is here 
made created as profound a change in the general attitude 
toward American history as any single word on that subject 
that has ever been spoken. 

THE SIGNIFICANCE OF THE FRONTIER IN AMERICAN 
HISTORY 

From "THE ANNUAL, REPORT OF THE AMERICAN HISTORICAL. 
ASSOCIATION" for 1893, pp. 199-227. By Professor Frederick 
J. Turner, then of the University of Wisconsin. 

In a recent bulletin of the Superintendent of the Cen- 
sus for 1890 appear these significant words : ' ' Up to and 
including 1880, the country had a frontier of settlement, 
but at present the unsettled area has been so broken into 
by isolated bodies of settlement that there can hardly be 
said to be a frontier line. In the discussion of its extent, 
its westward movement, etc., it cannot, therefore, any 
longer have a place in the census reports." This brief 
official statement marks the closing of a great historic 
movement. Up to our own day American history has 
been in a large degree the history of the colonization of 
the Great West. The existence of an area of free land, 
its continuous recession, and the advance of American 
settlement westward, explain American development. 

Behind institutions, behind constitutional forms and 
modifications, lie the vital forces that call these organs 
into life and shape them to meet changing conditions. 
The peculiarity of American institutions is the fact that 
they have been compelled to adapt themselves to the 
changes of an expanding people — to the changes involved 
in crossing a continent, in winning a wilderness, and in 
developing at each area of this progress out of the primi- 
tive economical and political conditions of the frontier 
into the complexity of city life. Said Calhoun in 1817, 



236 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

"We are great, and rapidly — I was about to say fearfully 
— growing!" So saying, he touched the distinguishing 
feature of American life. All peoples show development ; 
the germ theory of politics has been sufficiently em- 
phasized. In the case of most nations, however, the de- 
velopment has occurred in a limited area; and if the na- 
tion has expanded, it has met other growing peoples whom 
it has conquered. But in the case of the United States 
we have a different phenomenon. Limiting our attention 
to the Atlantic Coast, we have the familiar phenomenon 
of the evolution of institutions in a limited area, such as 
the rise of representative government ; the differentiation 
of simple colonial governments into complex organs ; the 
progress from primitive industrial society, without divi- 
sion of labor, up to manufacturing civilization. But we 
have in addition to this a, recurrence of the process of 
evolution in each western area reached in the process of 
expansion. Thus American development has exhibited 
not merely advance along a single line, but a return to 
primitive conditions on a continually advancing frontier 
line, and a new development for that area. American 
social development has been continually beginning over 
again on the frontier. This perennial rebirth, this fluidity 
of American life, this expansion westward with its new 
opportunities, its continuous touch with the simplicity of 
primitive society, has furnished the forces dominating 
American character. The true point of view in the history 
of this nation is not the Atlantic Coast, it is the Great 
West. Even the slavery struggle, which is made so ex- 
clusive an object of attention by writers like Professor 
von Hoist, occupies its important place in American his- 
tory because of its relation to westward expansion. 

In this advance, the frontier is the outer edge of the 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 237 

wave — the meeting point between savagery and civiliza- 
tion. Much has been written about the f rentier . from 
the point of view of border warfare and the chase, but 
as a field for the serious study of the economist and the 
historian it has been neglected. 

The American frontier is sharply distinguished from 
the European frontier — a fortified boundary line running 
through dense populations. The most significant thing 
about the American frontier is, that it lies at the hither 
edge of free land. In the census reports it is treated as 
the margin of that settlement which has a density of 
two or more to the square mile. The term is an elastic 
one, and for our purposes does not need sharp definition. 
We shall consider the whole frontier belt, including the 
Indian country and outer margin of the ''settled 
area," of the census reports. This paper will make no 
attempt to treat the subject exhaustively; its aim is 
simply to call attention to the frontier as a fertile field 
for investigation, and to suggest some of the problems 
which arise in connection with it. * * * 

The stubborn American environment is there vvith its 
imperious summons to accept its conditions ; the inherited 
ways of doing things are also there ; and yet, in spite of 
environment, and in spite of custom, each frontier did 
indeed furnish a new field erf opportunity, a gate of 
escape from the bondage of the past ; and freshness, and 
confidence, and scorn of older society, impatience of its 
restraints and its ideas, and indifference to its lessons, 
have accompanied the frontier. What the Mediterranean 
Sea was to the Greeks, breaking the bond of custom, 
offering new experiences, calling out new institutions and 
activities, that, and more, the ever retreating frontier 
has been to the United States directly, and to the nations 



238 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

of Europe more remotely. And now, four centuries from 
the discovery of America, at the end of a hundred years 
of life under the Constitution, the frontier has gone, and 
with its going has closed the first period of American 
history. 



PAUL SAMUEL REINSOH 

Professor Reinsch was born in Milwaukee in 1869. He re- 
ceived his A. B. from the University of Wisconsin in 1892 and 
Ms doctorate in 189 8. He had the advantage of studying at 
the University of Berlin and at Rome and Paris. He was assist- 
ant professor of political science at his Alma Mater from 1899 
to 1901, and full professor from 1901 to 1913, except for two 
years, 1911 and 1912, when he held the Roosevelt professor- 
ship at the Universities of Berlin and Leipzig. Since 1913, he 
has been Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary to 
China. His present address is the American Legation, Peking, 
China. 

Pew men have had the advantages both in study and expe- 
rience that have come to Dr. Reinsch, and few have met these 
advantages with keener love for truth and desire .for knowl- 
edge. He is a member of several learned societies of law and 
political science, and is the author of many books on these and 
related subjects. Some of these books have been translated 
into Japanese, Chinese, Spanish, and German. The selection 
given here is taken from "Intellectual Currents in the Par 
East," and well illustrates the fact that deep learning and per- 
fect clearness of expression may well go together in a literary 
production. 



THE NEW EDUCATION OF CHINA 

From "INTELLECTUAL. AND POLITICAL CURRENTS IN THE 
FAR BAST." Chapter V. By Paul S. Reinsch. Copyright. 
1911, by the author. 

* * * The zeal of the older teachers in trying to 
catch up with the foreign-trained men is at times almost 
pathetic. In most towns a ''teachers' discussion class" 
has been organized. These classes were established by 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 239 

the initiative of the teachers themselves, in order that 
they might acquire the knowledge necessary for ele- 
mentary instruction in the new branches. With great 
eagerness these men, varying in age from thirty-five to 
fifty-five years, will follow the instruction given by some 
youngster in the early twenties who has been fortunate 
enough to have had a course in Japan or the West. While 
the necessary superficiality of such a system must be 
deplored, the mere fact of this instruction being so eagerly 
sought by the teachers is the best proof that the old 
order, recognizing its inevitable fate, has abandoned the 
hope of regaining its former supremacy and is hurrying 
to adapt itself to the new conditions. 

This enthusiasm also finds expression in great indi- 
vidual sacrifices, and even in martyrdom. Private gifts 
are made in large numbers, even without the solicitation 
of officials or the hope of rewards. Within the last few 
years, it has frequently happened that some person de- 
sirous of founding a school, and lacking the means to do so, 
has in truly Oriental fashion appealed to his or her towns- 
men by committing suicide, after writing out a touching 
request for aid in the new cause. A Tartar lady at 
Hankow who had founded a school for girls was unable 
to secure sufficient money for carrying on the work of 
the institution. In order to secure her object, she de- 
termined to commit suicide. In her farewell letter, she 
stated that she felt the need of the school so much that 
she would sacrifice her own life and thus impress the need 
upon those who were able to give money. Her ?<^,t had 
the result desired, as after her death money came fiowing 
in from many sources. In most cases, fortunately, the 
appeals for assistance are successful without going to 
such extremes. Thus, the wife of a district magistrate 



240 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

in Honan, having decided to establish a school for girls, 
wrote a circular setting forth that a girl, if un- 
educated, brings six kinds of injury to herself and three 
kinds to her children. The subtlety of her arguments 
fascinated the city folk, and sufficient funds for her pur- 
pose were soon provided. 

The introduction of female education, which militates 
against the most deep-seated prejudices of the Chinese 
race, has called for greater personal sacrifices than any 
other part of educational reform. Some powerful patrons 
have indeed arisen. H. E. Tuan Fang urged the impor- 
tance of this reform upon the Empress herself, with the 
result that, before her death, the great lady established 
a school for female education in the capital. Educated 
women are making a strong plea for the education of their 
sisters. Doctor King Ya-mei, herself educated in the 
"West, points out that those who lament the superficial 
nature of the present reforms forget that ''half the 
nation, whose special function it is to put into practice 
the ideas governing the world in which she lives, has 
not yet been touched; that the strong impressions of 
childhood are the lasting ones, and that man is but an 
embodiment of the ideas of the mother. ' ' But in the case 
of female education, it is not primarily the provision of 
funds that causes difficulties. The desire of women to 
share in the advantages of education is of itself looked 
upon by the majority of the Chinese as scandalous and not 
at all to be encouraged. Many heartrending tragedies 
have been brought about by insoluble conflicts of duty 
toward the old and the new. A short time ago, in an 
interior village in Kiang Su, a woman, ambitious to be- 
come educated, killed herself after bad treatment from 
her husband's relatives. Her farewell letter was every- 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 241 

where copied by the Chinese press. It has become a 
national document, arid almost a charter of the new move- 
ment. In it occur the following sentences: "I am about 
to die today because my husband's parents, having 
found great fault with me for having unbound my feet, 
and declaring that I have been diffusing such an evil 
influence as to have injured the reputations of my an- 
cestors, have determined to put me to death. Maintaining 
that they will be severely censured by their relatives, once 
I enter a school and receive instruction, they have been 
trying hard to deprive me of life, in order, as they say, 
to stop beforehand all the troubles that I may cause. 
At first they intended to starve me, but now they compel 
me to commit suicide by taking poison. I do not fear 
death at all, but how can I part from my children who 
are so young? Indeed, there should be no sympathy for 
me, but the mere thought of the destruction of my ideals 
and of my young children, who will without doubt be 
compelled to live in the old way, makes my heart almost 
break." 

The blood of such martyrs is beginning to make its 
impression upon the Chinese people, and is turning them 
to favor more liberal popular customs. A nation in which 
a spirit of such ruthless self-sacrifice is still so common 
may bring forth things that will astonish the world. It 
has been said that "China contains materials for a revolu- 
tion, if she should start one, -to which the horrors of the 
French revolution would be a mere squib ;" but if turned 
into different channels, this spirit of self-sacrifice may, 
as it did in the case of Japan, bring about a quick regen- 
eration of national life and national prestige, through 
the establishment of new institutions, that correspond to 
the currents of life thus striving to assert themselves. 



242 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

GEORGE C. COMSTOCK 

Professor George C. Comstock was born in Madison in 1855, 
and after an education obtained at various colleges and uni-- 
versities, including tbe institutions of Ann Arbor and Madison, 
and after considerable and varied experience in engineering 
and astronomical work, he became professor of astronomy in 
our own University in 1887, and Director of Washburn Observa- 
tory two years later. Since 1906 he has been Director of the 
Graduate School. He is the member of many learned socie- 
ties, and has been highly honored in numerous ways by insti- 
tutions of learning. The stories that are told, and truly told, 
of his mathematical prowess, such as memorizing tables of 
logarithms, have excited wonder in the heart of many a student 
at Madison. His lectures, even on the most abstruse subjects, 
are notably clear. His illustrations are timely, and his English 
is of the very purest. He is a representative of the regular 
classical education that is now comparatively rarely elected by 
university undergraduates. 



ASTROIiOGY IN LIFE AND LITERATURE 

***** 
The modern philosopher and historian alike deride 
and marvel at astrology as the most persistent disease 
with which the minds of men have ever been afflicted 
but from which they are now happily freed by the ad- 
vance of science. I must confess my inability to share 
this view as to the patent folly of the art. The careful 
student of astrology cannot fail to be impressed with the 
logical coherence of its doctrines and their necessary re- 
lation to the fundamental postulates from which they 
spring. While these postulates can no longer be main- 
tained they seem in no way inappropriate as stages in 
the development of human knowledge and their wide 
spread acceptance is sufficient evidence of their seeming 
reasonableness to nascent society. Indeed it is only the 
upper strata of European civilization that has now out- 
grown the beliefs above considered. Asia still teems with 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 243 

them, from Seoul to Bagdad, and even in the heart of 
Europe astrological calendars are current and find enor- 
mous circulation among the lower classes. The practic- 
ing astrologer who seeks business through advertising in 
the daily press is with us in America, and to judge by the 
persistence of his advertisements they bring response. I 
find upon the shelves of the principal scientific library of 
Chicago a manual of applied astrology whose dirty and 
dog's eared leaves, together with recent date upon its title 
page, are additional testimony that American cultivation 
of the occult is not limited to Boston. Even nearer home 
■ we all know people who will plant or sow, or cut their 
hair only at the right phase of the moon or who have an 
abiding faith that the planetary weather predictions of 
Mr. Hicks are sound, in theory at least. I venture to 
assert that within range of the reader's acquaintance 
there is a considerable number of persons who firmly 
believe that in case of premature birth a seven months 
baby has a better chance of life than one of eight months 
— an ancient doctrine, for which excellent reasons were 
adduced by the Greek astrologers but which seems to 
find little support in current medical theory. 

But assuredly our best memorial of the part astrology 
has played in human affairs lies not in such paltry super- 
stitions but in its incorporation into the great literatures 
of Europe. Casual illustrations of this fossilized relation- 
ship have been given in this essay, but far more impressive 
than these instances are those cases in which astrologic 
doctrine permeates and dominates the whole structure 
of a great work. Chaucer's treatise on the Astrolabe 
was avowedly written as an exposition of the astrologic 
art, and in Dante 's Divine Comedy the whole moral struc- 
ture of the Paradiso, with its successive heavens allotted 



244 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

to beatitudes of varying degrees, finds its key in the as- 
trology that Dante knew and followed. The sequence of 
these heavens accords with that of the spheres allotted by 
astrologic doctrine to the several planets, arranged in the 
order of their increasing distance from the earth, the 
order of their altitude as Dante would have said. The 
lowest heaven, that of the moon, is allotted by the poet 
to virgins because forsooth they best typify those qualities 
of cold and moist with which astrologic doctrine endows 
the moon. They who have fought with fire and sword 
in defence of the Church militant are placed in a higher 
heaven than are those saints and theologians whose serv- 
ice has been intellectual in its nature ; an impropriety in 
our eyes and doubtless little congenial to Dante's mode of 
thought. But astrologically it must be so, for Mars, who 
typified the warrior, is higher, i. e., more distant from the 
earth, than is the sun whose light and warmth are alike 
the symbol and the source of intellect and spirituality. 
But ancient and modern ideas are equally satisfied when 
the poet placed God and the Redeemer in the empyrean, 
the region of the fixed stars, alike the most exalted and 
by reason of its distance, the purest part of the universe. 
Althought far from extinct, the old faith in the in- 
fluence of the heavens is waning and it is hard to believe 
that any mutations of human thought can ever restore it 
to a status comparable with that it enjoyed in classical 
and mediaeval times. As a factor in the conduct of life 
among enlightened people its power is gone, but the marks 
of its old time influence are dyed in the social fabric, 
imprinted alike upon language and literature and so long 
as that literature abides, astrology cannot sink below the 
horizon of man^s intellectual interests. 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 245 

JAMES FRANCIS AUGUSTINE PYRE 

Professor Pyre is another teacher whom Wisconsin can 
claim as wholly her own. He was born in 1871 in Rock County, 
and graduated at our University in 1892. While teaching 
English in his Alma Mater, he continued his graduate study, 
and was given his Ph. D. in 1897. He continued to serve his 
University, though for a brief space of time pursuing his study 
elsewhere, and became associate professor in 1909, which po- 
sition he now holds. 

No former student of the University reading this volume 
will be content with this sketch of Mr. Pyre without reference 
to his undergraduate football days, and to the nickname 
"Sunny," which will cling to him as long as he lives. Further- 
more, no one who has sat in his classes and been inspired by 
his reading and his interpretation, and felt the optimism of 
his philosophy will need to have it explained to him how Mr. 
Pyre acquired his nickname. 

The outstanding feature of his literary criticism, whether 
in the form of magazine article, or lecture, or informal talk, 
is clarity. In his class you could always understand what he 
was getting at. The reader of this brief selection from "Byron 
in Our Day," will sense that quality readily. The sentences 
are crisp and well formed. Their structure is not involved. 
The plan and organization are evident. At the same time there 
is dignity and distinction in every paragraph. 

BYRON IN OUR DAY 

By J. F. A. Pyre. From the Atlantic Monthly, Vol. XCIX, p. 547. 

And with Byron passion was not merely a gift ; it was 
a doctrine. In one of his letters to Miss Milbanke, there 
is an observation which comes very near to expressing the 
central principle of his existence. ''The great object of 
life is sensation — -to feel that we exist — even though in 
pain." To him, one of the chief curses of society was its 
ennui, the futility of its conventional pursuits, which all 
recognize, but most endure. He was for fanning the 
coal of life into a blaze. The vitality of his emotions 
demanded this. Hence, when friendship stagnated, when 
love lapsed into the inevitable mediocrity and torpor, he 
fretted or fled. In ordinary terms, he was fundamentally 
and abnormally impatient of being bored. 



246 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

A being thus constituted, and cherishing so dangerous 
a doctrine, naturally found no peace in this life, but was 
goaded on from pleasure to pleasure, or from one violence 
to another. Passionate friendships, savage quarrels, gam- 
ing, carousing, travel and adventure, hard reading, hard 
riding, flirtations, and intrigues of varying intensity and 
duration, playing the social and literary lion, parliament, 
marriage, occupied but did not satisfy him. Avid of 
sensation, avid of power, he threw himself impetuously 
into his pursuits, lavished his life with the reckless waste 
of a cataract, and seemed as inexhaustible. He was too 
clear-sighted not to perceive the triviality of many of his 
occupations, and though too willful to change his ways, or 
employ his ample will power in self-restraint, he was not 
sordid enough to be happy so. Hence, he became a mal- 
content. Love soothed him, nature appeased him for a 
time ; and in the presence of either, he soared into realms 
of serene delight and contemplation. But "he could not 
keep his spirit at that height ; ' ' say, perhaps, he was not 
a dreamer ; his passion called for outlet in action, in enter- 
prise ; and he became — a writer ! 

EDWARD ALSWORTH ROSS 

Edward. Alsworth Ross is nationally one of the best-known 
men here represented. He was born at Virden, Illinois, in 
1866; was graduated from Coe College, Iowa, in 1886; and 
then continued his education in Berlin and Johns Hopkins. 
He has been professor of economy, sociology, and kindred sub- 
jects at many universities, including Indiana University, 
Cornell, Leland Stanford, Junior, the University of Nebraska, 
and, since 19 06, the University of Wisconsin. He is the author 
of many books and magazine articles, among the most note- 
worthy of the former, perhaps, being "Sin and Society," So- 
cial Psychology," "Latter Day Sinners and Saints," and "The 
Changing Chinese." 

The selection here chosen is from the last named book. The 
style is like the man, forceful, trenchant, and abounding in 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 247 

life. Mr. Ross's tall, rugged, muscular figure and forceful ges- 
tures are familiar to the lovers of lectures in Wisconsin, and 
all who have been fortunate enough to hear him, whether in 
regular classes at the University, or in extension or other 
lecture work, will recall his striking appearance as they read 
the clear, clean-cut statements in this selection. 



THE CONFLICT OF ORIENTAL AND WESTERN CUIiTURES 
IN CHINA 

From "THE CHANGING CHINESE." Chapter I. Copyright, 1911, 
by the Century Co. 

China is the European Middle Ages made visible. All 
the cities are M^alled and the walls and gates have been 
kept in repair with an eye to their effectiveness. The 
mandarin has his headquarters only in a walled fortress- 
city and to its shelter he retires when a sudden tempest of 
rebellion vexes the peace of his district. 

The streets of the cities are narrow, crooked, poorly- 
paved, filthy, and malodorous. In North China they ad- 
mit the circulation of the heavy springless carts by which 
alone passengers are carried; but, wherever rice is culti- 
vated, the mule is eliminated and the streets are adapted 
only to the circulation of wheel-barrows and pedestrians. 
There is little or no assertion of the public interest in 
the highway, and hence private interests close in upon 
the street and well-nigh block it. The shopkeeper builds 
his counter in front of his lot line ; the stalls line the streets 
with their crates and baskets; the artisans overflow into 
it with their workbenches, and the final result is that the 
traffic filters painfully through a six-foot passage which 
would yet be more encroached on but for the fact that 
the officials insist on their being room left for their sedan 
chairs to pass each other. 

The straightened streets are always crowded and give 



248 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

the traveler the impression of a high density and an enor- 
mous population. But the buildings are chiefly one story 
in height, and, with the exception of Peking, Chinese 
cities cover no very great area. For literary effect their 
population has been recklessly exaggerated, and, in the 
absence of reliable statistics, every traveler has felt at 
liberty to adopt the highest guess. 

Until recently there was no force in the cities to main- 
tain public order. Now, khaki-clad policemen, club in 
hand, patrol the streets, but their efficiency in time of 
tumult is by no means vindicated. A slouching, bare-foot, 
mild-faced gendarme such as you see in Canton is by no 
means an awe-inspiring embodiment of the majesty of the 
law. 

There is no common supply of water. When a city lies 
by a river the raw river water is borne about to the house 
by regular water-carriers, and the livelong day the river- 
stairs are wet from the drip of buckets. "When the water 
is too thick it is partially clarified by stirring it with a 
perforated joint of bamboo containing some piece of 
alum. 

There is no public lighting, and after nightfall the 
streets are dark, forbidding, and little frequented. Until 
kerosene began to penetrate the Empire the common 
source of light was a candle in a paper lantern or cotton 
wick lighted in an open cup of peanut oil. Owing to the 
lack of a good illuminant the bulk of the people retire 
with the fowls and rise with the sun. By making the eve- 
ning of some account for reading or for family inter- 
course, kerosene has been a great boon to domestic life. 

Fuel is scarce and is sold in neat bundles of kindling 
size. Down the West Eiver ply innumerable boats corded 
high with firewood floating down to Canton and Hong 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 249 

Kong. Higher and higher the tree destruction extends, and 
farther and farther does the axman work his way from the 
waterways. Chaff and straw, twigs and leaves and litter 
are burned in the big brick bedsteads that warm the 
sleepers on winter nights, and under the big, shallow cop- 
per vessels set in the low brick or mud stoves. Fuel is 
economized and household economy simplified among the 
poor by the custom of relying largely on the food cooked 
and vended in the street. The portable restaurant is in 
high favor, for our prejudice against food cooked outside 
the home is a luxury the common people cannot afford to 
indulge in. 

Proper chimneys are wanting and wherever cooking 
goes, on the walls are black with the smoke that is left to 
escape as it will. Chinese interiors are apt to be dark for, 
in the absence of window glass, the only means of letting 
in light without weather is by pasting paper on lattice. 
The floors are dirt, brick, or tile, the roof tile or thatch. 
To the passer-by private ease and luxury are little in 
evidence. If a man has house and grounds of beauty, a 
high wall hides them from the gaze of the public. Open 
lawns and gardens are never seen, and there is no 
greenery accessible to the public unless it be the grovp of 
an occasional temple. 

In the houses of the wealthy, although there is much 
beauty to be seen, the standard of neatness is not ours. 
Cobwebs, dust, or incipient dilapidation do not excite the 
servant or mortify the proprietor. While a mansion may 
contain priceless porcelains and display embroideries and 
furniture that would be pronounced beautiful the world 
over, in general, the interiors wrought by the Chinese 
artisan do not compare in finish with those of his Western 
confrere. * * * 



250 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

. No memory of China is more hannting than that of 
the everlasting bine cotton garments. The common people 
wear coarse, deep-blue ''nankeen." The gala dress is a 
cotton gown of a delicate bird's-egg blue or a silk jacket 
of rich hue. In cold weather the poor wear quilted cotton, 
while the well-to-do keep themselves warm with fur-lined 
garments of silk. A general adoption of Western dress 
would bring on an economic crisis, for the Chinese are 
not ready to rear sheep on a great scale and it will be 
long before they can supply themselves with wool. The 
Chinese jacket is fortunate in opening at the side instead 
of at the front. When the winter winds of Peking gnaw 
at you with Siberian teeth, you realize how stupid is our 
Western way of cutting a notch in front right down 
through overcoat, coat and vest, apparently in order that 
the cold may do its worst to the tender throat and chest. 
On seeing the sensible Chinaman bring his coat squarely 
across his front and fasten it on his shoulder, you feel 
like an exposed totem- worshipper. 

Wherever stone is to be had, along or spanning the 
main roads are to be seen the memorial arches known as 
pailows erected by imperial permission to commemorate 
some deed or life of extraordinary merit. It is significant 
that when they proclaim achievement, it is that of the 
scholar, not of the warrior. They enclose a central gate- 
way, flanked by two, and sometimes by four, smaller gate- 
ways, and conform closely to a few standard types, all of 
real beauty. As a well-built pailow lasts for centuries, 
and as the erection of such a memorial is one of the first 
forms of outlay that occur to a philanthropic Chinaman, 
they accumulate, and sometimes the road near cities is 
lined with these structures until one wearies of so much 
repetition of the same thing, however beautiful. 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 251 

GRANT SHOWERMAN 

Professor Showerman is another author-teacher whom Wis- 
consin may claim as her own. He was born at Brookfield in 
1870, was graduated from the University in 1896, and took his 
doctorate in 1900. He had the advantage of two years' study 
at Rome, where he was Fellow of the Archaeological Insti- 
tute of America in the American School of Classical Studies. 
Since returning, he has been Professor of Latin Literature at 
his Alma Mater. He is member of many learned societies, 
and is the author of "With the Professor" and "The I-ndian 
Stream Republic and Luther Parker," besides many articles 
which are familiar to readers of the Atlantic Monthly and 
other leading periodicals. 

His style will be noted at once by the careful reader as 
being different from that of most other prose writers whose 
\vo;ks we quote here. It is more leisurely. He brings to the 
common things about us in Nature the kindly, alert intelligence 
of one who has seen many things in many lands, but who has 
the memory to re-create truthfully the days of youth. 



A LAD'S RECOLLECTIONS OF HIS BOYHOOD HAUNTS AND 
EXPERIENCES IN THE EARLIEB DAYS 

"IN OCTOBER." From the Sewanee Review. 
» * * » * 

On a late October Saturday morning, after a week in 
school at the village, yoii take your gun and a favorite 
play, whistle to already eager Billy, and follow the path 
to the Brush. You traverse its quiet length by the wind- 
ing road that is always mysterious and full of charm, 
however often you tread it, you cross the stubbled barley- 
field that borders Lovers' Lane, and cross the lane itself 
and enter the Woods. You feel the friendly book in your 
pocket, and pat the friendly dog at your side, restfuUy 
conscious that you will spend neither profitless nor com- 
panionless hours. To be sure, you have in the back of 
your mind a thought or two about fox squirrels, or even 
red squirrels, and of a stew-pie — the savor of it is in your 
sensitive nostrils; but these thoughts are only vague. 



252 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

Your eyes are not greedily watchful — only moderately so ; 
you have already begun to outgrow the barbarous boy- 
hood delight of mere killing. Good will reigns in your 
breast. 

You advance cautiously, the breech-loader resting in 
the bend of your left arm, every step causing pleasant 
murmurs among the autumn leaves. When you pause, the 
sound of your heart-beats is audible. The genial golden 
tone of Indian Summer pervades the air. 

When you have penetrated to the heart of the Woods, 
you sit down on a familiar log, the gun caressingly 
across your knees, and drink in the fine wine of woodland 
enjoyment ! Ah, the silence of the Woods ! How deep 
and how full of mystery! And how deeper whenever 
some note of life emphasizes the stillness — the knocking 
of a woodpecker, the cry of a sapsucker, the scream of a 
jay, the caw of a crow aloft on some decayed topmost 
branch in the distance! 

A distant barking note makes you start. There is a 
fox squirrel over yonder somewhere, beyond the ruins of 
the old arch. You strain your attention toward the sound. 
Billy sits bolt upright, with round eyes, questioning ears, 
and suspended breath. 

But just as you are thinking of getting up, a nut drops 
with a thump on the log beside you and bounds lightly 
into the leaves at your feet. You know what that means ! 
You look up instantly and catch just a glimpse of a 
sweeping foxy tail as it vanishes along a big branch and 
around the thick stem of a tree. He goes up forty or fifty 
feet, and then, far out on the big oak branch, lies close to 
the bark, out of sight. 

Billy whines uneasily; he shivers with excitement. 
You say: '' Sit still, Billy ! " . 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 253 

There is only the least bit of the foxy tail visible. You 
tread softly to one side and another, slowly circle the tree, 
and all the while the owner of the tail subtly shifts his 
position so that you always just fail to get a shot. 

Finally, you resort to stratagem; you pick up a nut 
and throw it with all your might to the other side of the 
tree. He hears it fall, and, suddenly suspicious, shifts 
to your side of the branch. But you are not quick enough ; 
by the time you have raised the gun, he has become satis- 
fied that you are the greater danger of the two, and has 
shifted back to safety. 

And now you resort to more elaborate stratagem. You 
say: "Sit down, Billy!" and Billy obeys, keeping his 
eye on you, and dropping his ears from time to time, as he 
catches your glance, in token of good-will. You circle the 
big tree again, and as you go the tail shifts constantly. 

Finally, when you are opposite Billy, you raise the gun 
with careful calculation. You call out quietly but sharply 
to your ally : ' ' Speak, Billy, quick ! ' ' 

Billy is tense with excitement at sight of the raised 
gun. He speaks out sharply, at the same time giving a 
^.ouple of little leaps. The squirrel shifts again to your 
side, suddenly. 

And now comes your opportunity ! As he sits there a 
moment, his attention divided between you and the new 
alarm, the breech-loader belches its charge. A brownish - 
red body with waving tail comes headlong to the ground 
with a crash among the leaves, which rustle and crackle 
for a moment or two at your feet as you watch the blind 
kicks of the death struggle. You pick him up, with no 
very great eagerness, and go on your way — regretfully, 
for you are enjoying the life of the Woods, and are enough 
of a philosopher and sentimentalist to wonder Avhat, after 



254 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

all, is your superior right to the enjoyment, and whether 
the contribution to the sum total of happiness in the uni- 
verse through you is enough to compensate it for the loss 
through the squirrel. 

You ask Billy about it and get no help. He simply 
says that whatever you think best is bound to be all 
right, and leads the way toward the old arch. 



WILLIAM ELLERY LEONARD 

William Ellery Leonard was born in New Jersey in 1876. 
He lias been a professor of English in tbe University of Wis- 
consin only since 1909, so he is not, as yet, so closely con- 
nected, with the state in the thought of the alumni of the Uni- 
versity as are most of the men whose works have just been 
discussed and illustrated. But if what he has produced may 
fairly be taken as an earnest of his future work, his name will 
be one which all lovers of our University will be proud to 
associate with that institution. One needs read scarcely more 
than a paragraph at almost any point in his published works 
to realize that Mr. Leonard is a man of keen and kindly in- 
terest in all things that he hears and sees, and that he has 
traveled and studied and lived widely and wisely. He has pub- 
lished several volumes, both of poems and prose, — notable 
among them being "Sonnets and Poems," "The Poet of Gali- 
lee," "Aesop and Hyssop," "The Vaunt of Man and Other 
Poems," and "Glory of the Morning." The selections given 
are taken from the last two volumes mentioned. 

One acquainted with modern English poetry may sense a 
marked likeness between Mr. Leonard's poems and those of 
Swinburne, though the former says he is not conscious of any 
such resemblance. There is a warmth of passion, a fluid quality 
in the rhythm, markedly like those elements In the great Eng- 
lish poet. The selection from "Glory of the Morning" here 
given begins at that point in the play where Half Moon, the 
Chevalier, the white trapper, comes back to his Indian wife to 
bid her farewell and to take their two children with him to his 
borne in France. The reader will feel, even in this brief ex- 
tract, the sweep toward a climax of emotion, and will be im- 
pelled to read the whole play at his first opportunity. 

(One of the most interesting features of the editorial wofk 
of this volume has been the adjustment of the choice of selec- 
tions respectively of the editors and authors. The editors' 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 255 

choice of the poems from Mr. Leonard's volume, "The Vaunt 
of Man," was "Love Afar"; the author, on the other hand, tells 
us that he thought so little of this poem that he even consid- 
ered omitting it from the volume. His preference is "A Dedi- 
cation." What does the reader say?) 



GLORY OF THE MORNING 

Copyright, 1912, by the author. 

The CheTalier : I will take care of the children. They 
are both young. They can learn. 

Glory of the Morning : They can learn? 

The Chevalier : Oak Leaf is already more than half 
a white girl ; and Red Wing is half white in blood, if not 
in manners — ca ira. 

Glory of the Morning (Beginning to realize) : No, no. 
They are mine ! 

The Chevalier (Reaching out his arms to take them) : 
No. 

Glory of the Morning : They are mine ! They are 
mine! 

The Chevalier : The Great King will give them pres- 
ents. 
" Glory of the Morning : No, no ! 

The Chevalier : He will lay his hands on their heads. 

Glory of the Morning : He shall not, he shall not ! 

The Chevalier : I have said that I will tell him you 
were their mother. 

Glory of the Morning : I am their mother — I am their 
mother. 

The Chevalier: And he will praise Glory of the 
Morning. 

Glory of the Morning : They are mine, they are mine ! 

The Chevalier : I have come to take them back with 
me over the Big Sea Water. 



256 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

Glory of the Morning (The buckskin shirt falls from 
her hands as she spreads her arms and steps between him 
and her children) : No, no, no ! They are not yours ! 
They are mine ! The long pains were mine ! Their food 
at the breast was mine ! Year after year while you were 
away so long, long, long, I clothed them, I watched them, 
I taught them to speak the tongue of my people. All that 
they are is mine, mine, mine I 

The Chevalier (Drawing Oak Leaf to him and holding 
up her bare arm) : Is that an Indian's skin? Where did 
that color come from? I'm giving you the white man's 
law. 

Glory of the Morning (Struggling with the Chevalier) : 
I do not know the white man's law. And I do not know 
how their skin borrowed the white man's color. But I 
know that their little bodies came out of my own body — 
my own body. They must be mine, they shall be mine, they 
are mine! (The Chevalier throws her aside so that she 
falls.) 

The Chevalier : Glory of the Morning, the Great Spirit 
'said long before you were born that a man has a right to 
his own children. The Great Spirit made woman so that 
she should bring him children. Black Wolf, is it not so? 

Black Wolf : It is so. 

The Chevalier (To Glory of the Morning, standing 
apart) : Black Wolf is the wise man of your people. 

Black Wolf : And knows the Great Spirit better than 
the white men. 

The Chevalier : Indeed, I think so. 

Black Wolf: And the Great Spirit made the man so 
that he should stay with the squaw who brought him the 
children, — except when off hunting meat for the wigwam 
or on the warpath for the tribe. 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 257 

Glory of the Morning ("With some spirit and dignity) : 
The white man Half Moon has said that he believes Black 
Wolf. 

The Chevalier : The white man has not come to argue 
with the Eed Skin, but to take the white man's children. 

Black Wolf (In his role of practical wisdom) : The 
Half Moon will listen to Black Wolf. 

The Chevalier (With conciliation) : If the Black Wolf 
speaks wisely. * * * 

Black Wolf : Neither Oak Leaf nor Red Wing is a mere 
papoose to be snatched from the mother's back. 

The Chevalier: The Half Moon shares Black Wolf's 
pride in the Half Moon's children. 

Black %Volf (Pointing to the discarded cradle-board) : 
The mother long since loosened the thongs that bound 
them to the cradle-board, propped against the wigwam. 

The Chevalier : And when she unbound the thongs of 
the cradle-board they learned to run toward their father. 

Black Wolf : But invisible thongs may now bind them 
round, which even the Half Moon might not break, with- 
out rending the flesh from their bones and preparing 
sorrows and cares for his head. 

The Chevalier : Let us have done. Black Wolf. 

Black Wolf : Thongs which none could break, unless 

Oak Leaf and Red Wing themselves should first unbind 

them. (To the children.) Will Oak Leaf, will Red Wing 

unbind the mystic thongs of clan and home? Let the 

children decide. 

The Chevalier: Black Wolf is wise. My children are 

babes no longer. They can think and speak. 

Black Wolf : Let them speak. 

* * * * * 

(rlory of the Morning : Yes. Let the children decide. 



258 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

Black Wolf: Oak Leaf, do you want to leave Black 
Wolf and Glory of the Morning to go with Half Moon over 
the Big Sea Water? 

Oak Leaf (Looking np at her mother) : do I, 
mother ? 

Glory of the Morning: I cannot tell. I love yon, Oak 
Leaf. 

Oak Leaf (Withdrawing toward her father) : Mother, 
make father Half Moon take you with us too. 

Glory of the Morning: The Half Moon has told you 
that he no longer needs Glory of the Morning. 

The Chevalier (Taking Oak Leaf's hand caressingly) : 
Oak Leaf, you are too beautiful to wither and wrinkle 
here digging and grinding and stitching, though the hand- 
somest brave of the Winnebago bought you for his squaw. 
Beyond the Big Sea Water you won't have to dig and 
grind and stitch. And sometime a noble brave of my 
nation will come in a blue suit with gold braid to the 
chateau and say: "I love Oak Leaf; will you give Oak 
Leaf to me?" 

Oak Leaf (Gladly) : And you'll give me to him, 
father! * * * (Oak Leaf leans against her father, 
with a half frightened glance at Glory of the Morning.) 

The Chevalier : You see. Glory of the Morning. 

Glory of the Morning (With restraint) : I will say 
good-bye to Oak Leaf. 

Black Wolf : Red Wing, are you going with your 
sister and with Half Moon over the Big Sea Water ? 

Red Wing: Sister, are you really going? — ^You are 
always making believe. 

Oak Leaf : 0, father,— tell him. 

The Chevalier : She is going. Red Wing. 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 259 

Red Wing : There is nothing for me beyond the Big 
Sea Water. 

The Chevalier: Over there your father is a famous 
chief, and you might wear a sword and fight beside the 
Great King. 

Red Wing: I shall not fight beside the Great King; 
and I shall not wear the white man's sword. 

The Chevalier (Takes his arm, eoaxingly) : Little 
chief, why not ? Why not, my son ? 

Glory of the Morning (Coldly and firmly) : Because 
he is my son. 

Red Wing (Standing off; to the Chevalier with boyish 
pride) : Because I am a Winnebago. 

liOVE AFAR 

From "THE VAUNT OF MAN AND OTHER POEMS," p. 75. 
Copyright, 1912, by B. W. Huebsch. 

I dare not look, O Love, on thy dear grace. 

On thine immortal eyes, nor hear thy song, 

For O too sore I need thee and too long. 

Too weak as yet to meet thee face to face. 

Thy light would blind — for dark my dwelling place — 

Thy voice would wake old thoughts of right and wrong, 

And hopes which sleep, once beautiful and strong, 

That would unman me with a dread disgrace: 

Therefore, O Love, be as the evening star, 
With amber light of land and sea between, 
A high and gentle influence from afar, 
Persuading from the common and the mean, 
Still as the moon when full tides cross the bar 
In the wide splendor of a night serene. 

THE IMAGE OF DELIGHT 

O how came I that loved stars, moon, and flame. 

An unimaginable wind and sea, 

All inner shrines and temples of the free. 



260 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

Legends and hopes and golden books of fame; 
I that upon the mountain carved my name 
With cliffs and clouds and eagles over me, 

how came I to stoop to loving thee — 

1 that had never stooped before to shame? 

'twas not Thee! Too eager of a white, 
Far beauty and a voice to answer mine, 
Myself I built an image of delight. 

Which all one purple day I deemed divine — 
And when it vanished in the fiery night, 

1 lost not thee, nor any shape of thine. 

A DEDICATION 

(For a privately printed collection of verse.) 
Ye gave me life for life to crave: 
Desires for mighty suns, or high, or low. 
For moons mysterious over cliffs of snow. 
For the wild foam upon the midsea wave; 
Swift joy in freeman, swift contempt for slave; 
Thought which would bind and name the stars and know; 
Passion that chastened in mine overthrow; 
And speech, to justify my life, ye gave. 

Life of my life, this late return of song 
I give to you before the close of day; 
Life of your life! which everlasting wrong 
Shall have no power to baffle or betray, 
O father, mother! — for ye watched so long. 
Ye loved so long, and I was far away. 



THOMAS HERBERT DICKINSON 

Thomas Herbert Dickinson was born in Virginia in 1877, 
and after a wide and thorough scholastic preparation was made 
associate professor of English in the University of Wisconsin 
in 1909. Mr. Dickinson is known to thousands of the citizens 
of Wisconsin as a friend of the drama. He believes that the 
drama is one of the most legitimate and natural means for 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 261 

the expression of the sentiments, tendencies, activities, and 
ideals of any people. No doubt he has done much to raise the 
standard of dramatic judgment and criticism among the citi- 
zens of Wisconsin. However, he would not want it said that he 
is trying primarily "to raise people's dramatic ideals." His 
mission rather has been to encourage communities to express 
themselves legitimately and wholesomely through their own 
dramatic productions. He has won much distinction both as an 
editor and an author of plays, but perhaps his greatest service 
to Wisconsin in this direction is his work in editing the little 
volume, "Wisconsin Plays," containing one play each by Zona 
Gale, Professor Leonard, and himself. 

The following selection is taken from his play, "In Hos- 
pital," in the volume just mentioned. It depicts just such a 
scene as takes place in our hospitals every day of the year. 
The wife is about to undergo a serious operation. The hus- 
band is trying to keep cheerful in anticipation of the ordeal. 
That is the sort of scene which, Mr. Dickinson wants us to 
realize, can be wliolesomely and pleasantly represented by the 
drama. 



IN HOSPITAIj 

Copyright, 1909, by the author. 

A Wife. 

A Husband. 

A Surgeon. 

An Interne. 

A Nurse. 

Wife : Tell me about the children. 

Husband: Oh, they are getting on — so, so. 

Wife : I know they will. 

Husband: But you should see them! ( Turning' 
toward her. She nods without speaking.) They're try- 
ing hard to be good, but it's a stiff pull for the little 
rascals. Well, I don't blame them. Freddie put me in 
quite a hole the other day. "What's the use of being good 
when mother's away?" he asked. (She smiles.) For the 
life of me I couldn't think of an answer. What would 
you say ? 

Wife: I'd be as bad off as you were. 

Husband: But Kobert wasn't. He had an answer. 



262 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

^*So mother will be happy when she comes back," he 
said. Wasn't that good? 

Wife: Just like Robert. 

Husband: I don't know what we should have done 
without Robert. He serves at the table. He answers the 
door and the telephone. He ties the baby's bib. How 
he thinks of everything I don't know. I — I'm so help- 
less. Why didn't you ever teach me to take charge of the 
house ? 

Wife : Fancy teaching you anything you didn't want . 
to learn. 

Husband (After a moment's deep silence) : All the 
kiddies send you their love. 

Wife : Even Freddie ? 

Husband : Oh, Freddie, to be sure. Guess you know 
about what he's doing. Upstairs and downstairs. Out- 
doors and in. 

Wife: I hope he won't get hurt. 

Husband: Trust him for that. But how do you keep? 
him in aprons? They're all dirty already. Yesterday 
he got all scratched up trying to put Kitty to bed and 
make him say his prayers. He has fallen in the flour bin, 
put the telephone out of commission, pulled the table-cloth 
and dishes off the table. There isn't anything he hasn't 
done. Freddie will welcome you back with a dish-pan 
band, when you come home. 

Wife (Closing her eyes) : Yes — 

Husband (Pretending not to notice, though it is clear 
that he does) : Did I tell you about night before last? 

Wife : No. 

Husband: Well, that night he slept over at Cousin 
Ruthie's house. All his nightgowns were dirty so Aunt 
Ella made him wear one of Ruthie's. But she had the 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 263 

hardest time making him wear it. The next morning he 
said to me, ''I'm glad I ain't a woman, ain't you, Paw?" 
"Yes, I suppose so," said I. ''Why?" "Oh, they're all 
right, I guess," he said, "but before I'll wear another of 
those women's nightgowns, I'll go to bed raw." 

Wife (Smiling) : Little man. Does he ask for me 
much ? 

Husband: Just this morning he said, "Pop, you tell 
mamma to come back quick or I'll elope with the ice 
man." * * * Well, they're good children. I don't 
think any one ever had better. And that's something, 
isn't it? 

Wife : That 's everything. They make me very happy. 
* * * You know, dear, I have been doing a good deal 
of thinking since I came here. I've seen things very 
clearly, clearer than even at home. I think I've been 
able to tell why I've been so happy. You find out what's 
really worth while in a time like this, don't you? (Hus- 
band nods.) 

Wife: I won't say anything. about you. You know. 
But the children. (She smiles.) Yes, I know why I've 
been happy. 

WILLIAM J. NEIDIG 

Iowa and Illinois may rightly contest the claim of Wiscon- 
sin for a proprietary interest in Mr. William Jonathan Neidig. 
He was horn in the first-named state, and is at present living 
in Chicago, where he is engaged in business, though he still 
finds time for an occasional story or poem. He was a member 
of the faculty in the English Department of the University of 
Wisconsin from 19 05 to 1911, and it was during approximately 
this period of his life that his literary activity was greatest. 
"The First Wardens," which was nominated for the Nobel 
prize in idealistic literature, was published in 1905, and several 
critical works that attracted wide attention came from his pen 
during his Wisconsin residence. 

The one poem which we quote here shows an evenness of 



264 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

power and an assurance of touch that mark real poetry. It 
also would be generally recognized, the editors feel, as having 
been written by a University man. 

THE BUOY-BELL 

From "THE FIRST WARDENS." Copyright, 1905, The Macmillan 
Co. 

Bell! Bell! 
Bell that rideth the breakers' crest, 
Bell of the shallows, tell, O tell: 
The swell and fall of foam on the sand. 
Storm in the face from sea to land. 
Roar of gray tempest: these, O bell. 
What say these of the West? 

Tell! O tell! 

Bell! Bell! 
Crowding the night with cries, O tell: 
What of the moorings in the silt? 
What of the blooms that drift and wilt? 
What of the sea-chest wrenched wide? 
Is it safe harbor by thy side? 
Bell that rideth the breakers' crest. 
What say these of the West? 

Tell! O tell! 

Bell! Bell! 
It is a dirge the bell is tolling, 

A dirge for the silent dead, — 
With the cold sea rolling, rolling, rolling. 

Rolling each restless head. 
Bell that rideth the breakers' crest, 
O, when will they lie all quietly, 

Untossed by the slow sea-swell: 
Nor breakers brave on the great sea-beach, 
Nor ceaseless crash of the cresting sea. 
Nor booming headland's sullen knell. 

Nor bell, for elegy? 
When is the last tide out of the West, 
And the last restless dream for each? 
Tell! O tell! 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 265 

Toll! toll! toll! 
Toll for the ebbing tide: 
Toll for the lives that outward ride: 
Toll for the deep-delved cold sea-seat: 
Night in the West at every beat! 

Toll! toll! 



BRAYLEY—WINSLOW— JONES. 

In this group of young writers, the editors present what 
seems to them to be the best work done by students or young 
graduates of the University while unquestionably under her 
influence. They wish there were work by more such writers 
to present. Possibly there • is more that has not yet been 
brought to their attention. 

Berton Brayley has written extensively for newspapers. He 
has facility in rhyme and the knack of "hitting off" a verse 
that well fits an occasion. One has the feeling, however, that 
there is a power and seriousness to the man that have not yet 
found adequate expression. Perhaps in the next ten years the 
qualities of ease, leisureliness, and reflection will assert them- 
selves more in his poetry. But from the first there has been 
a wholesome tone about his work. 

Horatio Winslow, son of Chief Justice J. B, Winslow, 
showed marked ability while an undergraduate. He was a 
collaborator in the writing of a play which was presented by 
University students. As with Mr. Brayley, we would say of 
him that his best work has not yet been published. There is 
power and strength and grace latent in him that have not yet 
found expression, but that are unmistakably foretold in the 
things he has already produced. 

Howard Mumford Jones is the youngest of these three men, 
and comes from the spirit-haunted region of the Mississippi. 
While his poems have not yet attained absolute surety of touch 
and evenness of movement, yet of those presented in this group 
they probably evince the most grace and music, together with 
the highest and warmest poetic feeling. "When Shall We To- 
gether" has real sweep and atmosphere and glow. It is the- 
production of a poet who loved the subject he was writing, 
about. 

SOMETIMES 

Sometimes I long for a lazy isle, 

Ten thousand miles from home. 
Where the warm sun shines and the blue skies smile 

And the milk-white breakers foam — 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

A coral island, bravely set 

In the midst of the Southern sea. 
Away from the hurry and noise and fret 

Forever surrounding me! 

For I tire of labor and care and fight, 

And I weary of plan and scheme. 
And ever and ever my thoughts take flight 

To the island of my dream; 
And I fancy drowsing the whole day long 

In a hammock that gently swings — 
Away from the clamorous, toiling throng, 

Away from the swirl of things! 

And yet I know, in a little while. 

When the first glad hours were spent, 
I'd sicken and tire of my lazy isle 

And cease to be content! 
I'd hear the call of the world's great game — 

And battle with gold and men — 
And I'd sail once more, with a heart of flame. 

Back to the game again! 

— Berton Braley. 
Saturday Evening Post, January 15, 1916. 



THE PIONEERS 

Current Opinion, Volume LIV, Page 497. (First published in 
The Coming- Nation.) 

We're the men that always march a bit before 

Tho we cannot tell the reason for the same; 
We're the fools that pick the lock that holds the door — 

Play and lose and pay the candle for the game. 
There's no blaze nor trail nor roadway where we go; 

There's no painted post to point the right-of-way. 
But we swing our sweat-grained helves, and we chop a path 
ourselves 

To Tomorrow from the land of Yesterday. 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 267 

It's infrequent that we're popular at home, 

(Like King David we're not built for tending sheep,) 
And we scoff at living a la metronome. 

And quite commonly we're cynical and cheap. 
True — we cannot hold a job to savS our lives; 

We're a dreamy lot and steady work's a bore — 
'Til the luring of the Quest routs us out from sleep and rest 

And we rope and tie the world and call for more. 



Well, they try to hold us back by foolish words — 

But we go ahead and do the thing we've planned; 
Then they drive us out to shelter with the birds — 

And the ravens bring our breakfast to our hand. 
So they jail us and we lecture to the guards; 

They beat us — we make sermons of their whips; . 
They feed us melted lead and behold the Word is said 

That shall burn upon a million living lips. 



Are we fighters? By our fellows we are fanged. 

Are we workers? Paid with blows we never earned. 

Are we doctors? Other doctors see us hanged. 

Are we teachers? Brother teachers have us burned. 

But through all a Something somehow holds us fast 

'Spite of every beast-hung brake and steaming fen; 
And we keep the torch on high till a comrade presses by 

When we pass it on and die — and live again! 



A lilTTIiE BOOK OF LOCAIi VERSE 

Author of "The Masque of Marsh and River.' 
Copyrig-ht, 1915, by the Author. 
Pages 13-14. 

When shall we together 

Tramp beneath the sky, 
Thrusting through the weather 
As swimmers strive together. 

You and I? 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

How we ranged the valleys. 

Panted up the road, 
Sang in sudden sallies 
Of mirth that woke the valleys 

Where we strode! 

Glad and free as birds are. 

Laughter in your eyes. 
Wild as poets' words are. 
You were as the birds are, 

"Very wise. 

Not for you the prison 

Of the stupid town; 
When the winds were risen. 
You went forth from prison, 

You went down, 

Down along the river 

Dimpling in the rain, 
Where the poplars shiver 
By the dancing river, 

And again 

Climbed the hills behind you 
When the rains were done; 

Only God could find you 

With the town behind you 
In the sun! 

Don't you hear them calling, 

Blackbirds in the grain, 
Silver raindrops falling 
Where the larks are calling 
You in vain? 

Comrade, when together 
Shall we tramp again 
In the summer weather, 
You and I together, 

Now as then? 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 269 

JOSEPH P. WEBSTER. 

No one who reads this book is unfamiliar with "The Sweet 
Bye and Bye." But how many of us, as we sang that song, 
realized that both its words and music were written by a Wis- 
consin man, — Joseph P. Webster? 

He was born in New Hampshire in 1819, but he lived most 
of his life at Blkhorn, where he died in 1875. He was a mem- 
ber of many musical societies, and was the composer of many 
other songs, the best known of the latter being "Lorena." 



SWEET BYE AND BYE 

Composed by Joseph Philbrick Webster, February, 1868. 
I. 

There's a land that is fairer than day. 
And by faith we can see it afar. 
For the Father waits over the way. 
To prepare us a dwelling place there. 

Chorus. 

In the sweet by and by. 

We shall meet on that beautiful shore; 

In the sweet by and by, 

We shall meet on that beautiful shore. 



II. 

We shall sing on. that beautiful shore 
The melodious songs of the blest, 
And our spirits shall sorrow no more- 
Not a sigh for the blessings of rest. 



III. 

To our bountiful Father above. 
We will offer the tribute of praise. 
For the glorious gifts of His love. 
And the blessings that hallow our days. 



WRITERS OF LOCAL DISTINCTION 

The greatest difficulty confronting the compilers of any 
anthology is involved in the necessary exclusion, through lack 
of space, or else, in some instances, through lack of unmis- 
takable manifestation of literary merit, of some authors and 
selections that would no doubt be welcomed by many readers 
of the volume. In the present work it has been the main pur- 
pose to set forth in due prominence the works of those writers 
of our state who have displayed unmistakable literary merit, 
and who have, beyond doubt, possessed both a message and a 
marked facility in giving it to the world. We now come to 
those who. usually despite the rigorous exactions of hurried 
and anxious frontier lives, have sensed the essential elements 
of poetry or story in their workaday lives, and have had the 
courage and optimism necessary to write and publish. 

To show just what courage it took and just what spirit 
impelled these writers, let us quote from the preface to 

A COUNTRY GIRL'S FATE 

BY C. F. SHERIFF. 



"When Ed. Coe, of Whitewater, Wisconsin, began 
some twelve years ago publishing Cold Spring items, 
signed by ' Greenhorn, ' he published the first lines I ever 
wrote, at which time some spirit (or some unseen thing) 
seemed to be always whispering in my ear that I must 
write a book. 

''Never could I drive from me these thoughts, and 
situated as I was, with plenty of farm work to do, no 
education at all, no knowledge of such business, no friends 
to help me, but lots to kick me down, I can tell you I 
was pretty well discouraged, and if I had not had lots of 
courage, the contents of this book would not have been 
written. 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 271 

"This work is the only kind of work that I can get 
interested in, and should I pass to the mysterious beyond 
without gaining any name in this way, I would declare 
with my last breath that my life, as far as myself was 
concerned, had been a failure. ' ' 



DEW DROPS 

Something of the same impulse is found in this dedication 
of the volume "Dew Drops," by Leda Bond (Mrs. F.eldsmith). 

"This little book is fondly dedicated to Raymond and 
Leotta, my two beloved children, who, when the shades 
of sorrow closed around me, stretched forth their baby 
fingers, and parting the curtains of gloom, revealed once 
more the gladsome light of a happier day." 

We feel that the names of some of these courageous 
and happy pioneers should be given in this volume, together 
with brief selections from some of their works. Some of 
the verses here given will show sure sense of rhyme and 
pleasing balance and reserve. Some have, it is true, little to 
commend them but the evident longing to express the song 
that was in the soul rather than on the lips. But who can say 
how much the more successful ones, who have won, deserved 
fame and plaudits, owe to the more obscure who sought, with 
more meagre measure of success, to show that there is poetry 
and song and story in Wisconsin? 



POEMS OF A DAY, 

A Collection of Fugitive Poems Written Among the Cares and 
Labors of Daily Journalism. 

By A. M. THOMSON. 
(Then Editor of the Sentinel), Milwaukee, 1873. 

DEATH OF GOVERNOR HARVEY 

Bow down thy head, O Commonwealth, 
'Tis fitting now for thee to weep; 

Thy hopes lie buried in the grave. 
In which our chieftain is asleep. 



272 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

The flags at half mast sadly droop. 
The bells toll out a solemn wail, 

As on the southern breeze there comes. 
With lightning speed, the sick'ning tale! 

O, dreadful night! O, fatal step! 

O, rushing river's angry tide! 
Was there no quick, omniscient arm 

To save a life so true and tried? 

Breathe, lofty Pines, his requiem; 

Sing paeans in thy forest gloom; 
And ye, ye Prairies, that he loved, 

Bring Flora's gems to deck his tomb. 

O, State, bereft of him you loved, 

O, Mother, from thy loving breast. 

Our friend and brother, statesman, chief. 
At noon, sinks calmly to his rest! 

We cannot hide these scalding tears. 
But kiss in trust this chast'ning rod; 

Though reason sleeps, faith is not blind. 
But sees in all the hand of God. 



BALLADS OF WAR AND PEACE. 

By J. H. WHITNEY, Baraboo, Wisconsin. 
THE MUSTER ROIiLS 

When treason, veiled in fair disguise, 
And clad in robes of state. 

Invoked the sword to cut the ties 
That made a nation great, 

Wisconsin sounded the alarm. 
And beat the battle-drum: 

Men heard from office, mill and farm. 
And answered, "Lo! we come." 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 273 

Down from the rugged northern pines, 

Up from the eastern coast; 
From riverside and southern mines, 

Comes forth the loyal host. 

From Gainesville thru the wilderness 

They march with fearless tread. 
And leave behind, as on they press. 

An army of the dead. 
« * * 
Beneath the blue — above the green. 

Mid flowers of fairest hue, 
We honor now with reverent mien, 

The men who wore the blue. 

The story of the rolls is told. 

The records, worn and gray. 
Like veterans, are growing old. 

And soon shall pass away. 

But deeds of valor for a cause 

So just, shall ever shine. 
And loyalty to righteous laws 

Shall live, because divine. 



IN THE LAND OF FANCY, AND OTHER POEMS. 

By MRS. LIBBIE C. BAER. 
(Appleton, Wisconsin. Copyrig-ht, 1902, by the Author.) 

IN THE LAND OF FANCY 

Never a cloud to darken the blue. 
Never a flower to lose its hue. 
Never a friend to prove untrue 
In the beautiful land of fancy. 



Never a joy to turn to pain, 
Never a hope to die or wane. 



274 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

Never a boon we may not gain 

In the beautiful land of fancy. 
Never a heart turns false or cold, 
Never a face grows gray or old, 
Never a love we may not hold 

In the beautiful land of fancy. 

All of life that we crave or miss, 
(The world denies us half its bliss), 
Free, untrammelled, we have in this — 
In the beautiful land of fancy. 



A COLLECTION OF POEMS. 

By J. R. HENDERSON, Riley, Wisconsin. 

Copyright, 1896, by the Author. 
We give here a selection of "Neighborhood Verse," such 
as may achieve much local fame and really may make life 
more worth living. 

A NUPTIAIi SAIiUTATION 

Neighbors and friends, we have met today. 

At the home of Jimmie Clow, 
To see his daughter Mary give her hand away, 

And take the marriage vow. 

To see Willie Goodwin get a wife, 

And start on the matrimonial sea. 
Long life, health and happiness to him and his. 

Is the wish of this whole company. 

Now, Willie, lad, here's a pipe for you, 

■ It's a present from old Joe; 
And when you take your evening smoke 
You'll remember him, I know. 



And, Mary, lass, here's a gift for you- 
Ah, you'll need it yet; you'll see. 

Take it now, and hide it away 
From this laughing company. 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 275 

SONGS AND SONNETS. 

By MARY M. ADAMS. 

Copyright, 1901, by the Author (wife of Charles Kendall Adams, 
then President of the University of Wisconsin). 

WISCONSIN 

Sound her praise! our noble State, 
All her strength to deeds translate. 
Prove her shield when danger's nigh. 
Read her banner in the sky. 
Tell of her in song and story. 

All her past with love illume. 
Show her present robed in glory, 

Promise of a larger bloom. 

Morning maid! whose day began 
With the nobler life in man, 
Sun-crowned souls reveal thy fame. 
Sacred hopes thy laws proclaim, 
O Father! hear for her our prayer, 

Bid her voice Thine own decree. 
Let all her growth Thyself declare, 

Guard the light supplied by Thee! 

MY BEST POEM. 
You ask of mine the poem I love best, 

And promise it shall have the larger light; 
Alas, alas! far, far beyond the rest 

I love the poem that I mean to write! 

THE RICHEST TIME OF LIFE 

^ MTRA GOODWIN PLANTZ, 1856-1914. 

From 

SONGS OP QUIET HOURS. 

Copyright, by Pres. Samuel Plantz and reprinted by permission of 

The Methodist Book Concern. 

This poem was written to her mother on her seventy-seventh 

birthday. 

The spring is fair; it has its flowers. 

Its happy time of sun and showers; 

Then summer cometh as a queen. 

With roses on her robe of green; 



276 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

But autumn brings the crimson leaves 
And wealth of golden, garnered sheaves, 
And grapes that purple on the vine. 
With spring and summer in their win^. 

The morning comes with rosy light 
That dims the candles of the night. 
And wakes the nestling birds to song. 
And sends to toil the brave and strong. 
Mid-day and afternoon are spent 
In search of gold or heart-content; 
Then comes the sunset's glow and rest. 
And this of all the days is best. 

The baby comes with Paradise 
Still shining in his smiling eyes, 
And childhood passes like a dream. 
As lilies float upon a stream. 
Then youth comes with its restless heat, 
And. manhood, womanhood, replete 
With care and pleasure, joy and strife, 
Lead to the richest part of life. 

And it has reached these, mother dear. 
The sunny, mellow time of year; 
Though with a climate of thine own. 
In constant sun thy soul has grown. 
Time counts not helpful, happy years — 
He only numbers sighs and tears; 
So rich in blessings, strong in truth. 
Thou hast not age, but richer youth. 



WAYSIDE FLOWERS. 

By CARRIE CARLTON. 
(Mrs. M. H. Chamberlain.) 

A SPELL IS ON MY SPIRIT 

A spell is on my spirit 

And I cannot, cannot write. 

All the teeming thoughts of glory 
That crowd my soul tonight. 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 277 

They come in quick succession. 

Like the phantoms in a dream; 
And they surge in shadowy billows, 

Like the mist upon a stream. 



Oh! had I but the language, 

I would give these visions birth; 
I would shadow their glorious meaning. 

And their untold, hidden worth. 
They were raised by wild thanksgiving, 

For a blessed answered prayer; 
And their fleeting, changing beauty, 

Held my spirit breathless there. 



I had pleaded, oh, how earnest 

For one precious, precious boon; 
For one gift to cheer this bosom. 

That was desolate so soon. 
Now I know my prayer is answered. 

And my soul would fain adore. 
Him whose promise is forever, 

And is faithful evermore. 



UNDER THE PINES. 

By ADA F. MOORE. 
Published by West and Co., Milwaukee, 1875. 

LINES FOR THE TIMES 

There's a certain class of people 

In this sublunary sphere — 

(And if I'm not mistaken, 

You'll find them even here), 

Who think the rare old precept 

To the old Athenians given, 

And esteemed so full of wisdom 

That they deemed it came from Heaven, — 



278 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

In tMs glorious age of progress 

Has become quite obsolete; 

So they choose another motto. 

For these latter times more meet. 

It is "know thyself" no longer — 

So they say, and. who can doubt them — 

But "Mortal, know thy neighbors, 

And everything about them!" 

To attain this worthy object, 
All other cares forego; 
To gain this glorious knowledge. 
You cannot stoop too low. 
Heed not the ancient croakers. 
Who ask, with solemn phiz — 
"Is it anybody's business 
What another's business is?" 

No! we'd join the glorious party. 
That to giant size has grown. 
To mind our neighbor's business, 
And "Know nothing" of our own. 
Hurrah! for the Rights of Meddlers! 
For the freedom of our day! 
For the glorious Age of Progress! 
And for Young America! 



MEMORIES OF THE WISCONSIN AND OTHER 
POEMS. 

By HARRY LATHROP. 
Published by Review Print, Flint, Mich., in 1903. 

THE MAN WHO LAUGHS 

He loves to make another laugh 
And laugh himself as well, 
Nor any one around one-half 
So good a joke can tell. 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 279 

The less of pain a man can give, 
The more of joy he scatters; 
The more excuse for him to live — 
Apart from weightier matters. 

Then emulate the men who laugh. 
Good health and mirth are catching, 
The wine of joy is ours to quafE, 
Life's duties while despatching. 

OVER THE DIVIDE. 

And other Verses. 

By MARION MANVILLE. 

Copyright, 1887, by the Author. 

PRELUDE 

But one of a thousand voices, 

Oh, how can one voice be heard. 

When ninety and nine and nine hundred 
Are chanting the same old word? 

But one of a thousand singers, 

What song can I sing, oh pray, 
That is not sung over and over. 

And over again today? 

VISIONS OF A CITIZEN. 

By PROFESSOR J. J. BLAISDELL (1827-1896), Beloit College. 
Copyright, 1897, J. A. Blaisdell. 

EXTRACT FROM AN ADDRESS (p. 10). 

One cannot be a good citizen of Wisconsin witliout 
being a good citizen of America. One cannot be a good 
citizen of America without being a good citizen of the 
Commonwealth of all nations. One cannot be a good 
citizen of the world Commonwealth without being a good 
citizen of the Universal Kingdom of God's moral order. 
Wisconsin citizenship, magnificent lesson to be learned! 



280 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

JOHN NAGLE'S PHILOSOPHY. 

Compiled by SYDNEY T. PRATT, Manitowoc. Wisconsin. 

Entered according- to the act of Congress, in the year 1901, in the 

office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, 

by Sydney T. Pratt. 

AUTUMN 

There is something in the approach of autiimn, the 
border land of summer, that is depressing, just as if the 
shadow of death were brooding over the future. There 
are dark clouds in the sky which cut off the sunshine; 
there is a gloom in the heart which darkens hope and 
makes life "scarcely worth living." The wind has a 
mournful cadence, and the trees saw as if the motion were 
a sigh of sorrow. Everything seems to harmonize with the 
prevailing spirit of sadness, and animate nature moans 
forth a dirge. Dew drops seem like tears, and the even- 
ing breeze is a sigh. The moon itself seems to wear a garb 
of grief and floats among the clouds, a tear-stained Diana. 
It is a season for men to grow mad, for anguish to gnaw 
at the heart, and for melancholy to usurp the throne of 
reason. The retina only receives dark impressions, the 
tympanum transmits none but doleful sounds. One is 
feasted on dismal thoughts on every hand until it be- 
comes a regular symposium of sorrow. Those imps, the 
Blues, that feed one on dejection, are in their heyday, im- 
placable as a Nemesis, persistent as a Devil. They revel 
in gloom and drag one down to the Slough of Despond. 
Work is performed mechanically, and what in its nature 
is amusement, is now a bore. One "sucks melancholy 
from a song as a weasel sucks eggs," and longs for night 
that he may seek forgetfulness in sleep — the twin-sister 
of Death. A miserable world this, when the year is 
falling "into the sear and yellow leaf;" and there is a 
lingering wish that the shadows which come from the 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 281 

West would bring that icy breath that gives forgetful- 
ness and rest. 



POEMS. 

By WILFRID EARL CHASE, Madison. 
Copyrig-ht, 1913, by the Author. 

FAITH 

Maze of antinomies and miracles! 
Bewildered, purblind we are led along 
This rock-strewn, flower-decked, mystic, wondrous way. 
Whence came? What are we? Whither are we led? 
Wherefore journey we? Why such fickle path? 
And Nature's myriad answers, voiced in the storm's 
Wild tumult, fringed on the gentian's azure cup, 
Or limned on human brow, we would descry, — 
And some we darkly guess, and some we almost know. 

BOOK OF THE GREEN LAKE MANSE. 

A SEQUEL TO THE RHYMED STORY OF WISCONSIN. 
By J. N. DAVIDSON. 

MY NEIGHBOR'S CHICKENS 

(The following verses express no grievance of my own. I 
could not ask for more considerate neighbors. But all gar- 
deners are not so fortunate, and it is for their sake and at the 
suggestions of one of them that these lines were written.) 

Sometimes I say "The Dickens! 

There are my neighbor's chickens!" 

My neighbor I like well 

But — let me grievance tell — 

I do not like his chickens; — 

Save when he bids me to a roast 

And plays the part of kindly host. 

My garden is most dear to me 
From carrot bed to apple tree. 
And so my patience sickens 
When I behold the chickens 
In it and scratching merrily. 



282 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

Dark gloom grows darker, thickens. 
In looking at those chickens. 

A certain scientific man 

Once called the hen "A feeble bird." 

It is, I'm sure, on no such plan 

My neighbor's hens are built; the word 

"Feeble" to them does not apply. 

I wish Professor would stand by 

And see those hens make mulching fly. 

Or let him watch them as they eat 
My cauliflower choice and sweet. 
Or gorge themselves on berries fine; 
The way they always do with mine. 
They run on their destructive feet 
From stalk to stalk, from vine to vine. 
Or scratch as if they dug a mine. 

And so, my neighbor, won't you please. 
My cares dispel, my troubles ease. 
By keeping all your hens at home? 
Soon, soon the very earth will freeze 
And then the fowls at large may roam. 
So I'll not need the pen of Dickens 
To tell my horror of your chickens! 

TO MY NEIGHBORS AT Hllili CREST 

Shall I do dear Sam a wrong - 
If I write no little song 
Telling how he pleases Grace, 
Brings the light to Temple's face. 
Shares their play or runs a race. 
Merry all about the place? 

No; I'd do the duck no wrong 
If I failed to make the song. 
He'll not care for verse or rhyme. 
But this pleasant summer-time 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 283 

I have seen my little neighbors, 
Happy in their kindly labors 
Making Sam and others glad, 
So I say, "God bless the lad; 
Bless the lassie"; and I know 
That the love to Sam they show 
Makes their own hearts richer, truer; 
Makes the sky seem brighter, bluer; 
Makes them to us all a joy 
(I mean duck, and girl, and boy). 

So I'd surely do a wrong 

If I did not say in song 

To loved Tompie and Miss Grace 

(Merry all about the place) 

That their duck's important, quite, 

With his new-grown feathers white; 

But the more important thing 

Is their love; of this I sing! 



IN THE LIMESTONE VALLEY. 

PEN PICTURES OF EARLY DAYS IN WESTERN WISCONSIN. 

By S. W. BROWN. 

Copyrig-ht, 1900, La Crosse, Wisconsin. 

FROM CHAPTER II, pp. 37-38. 

Such was Neoshone, as the Indians who frequently 
camped there called it when the first white man stood on 
the bank of the river and watched the rushing waters 
flow swiftly by. They had borne the red man in his 
canoe, and around this very spot the Winnebago hunter 
had secured fine strings of ducks, and for generations 
had trapped for mink and gathered in abundance the 
fish that swarmed in every eddy and pool. 

The hill at the north was crowned with a beautiful 
grove of young oak trees, and, standing on its slope, the 
early pioneer beheld before his eyes a magnificent pano- 



284 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

rama. In the distance the everlasting hills seemed to 
stand guard round and about it as did the walls of the 
Jewish capitol encircle its sacred precincts. 

Valley, hillside, prairie, and plain, stretched away 
from the spectator's feet in varying lines and curves, 
while down the center rolled the grand old river. It 
seemed like a second Canaan, waiting for the coming of 
the chosen people, its soil ready to be waked by the share 
of the settler's plow, when crops would come forth as if 
touched by the magician's wand. 

From 
"ON GROWING OLD. ' 

By NEAL. BROWN. 

Read before the Phantom Club, Oconomowoc, Wisconsin, 

April 15, 1913. 

Growing old has many stages. You can remember the 
time when, in reading your favorite author, you were 
disgusted to find that he had made his hero forty years 
old, and you wondered how he could be guilty of imput- 
ing romance to such an unconscionable age. By and' by, 
even though you found forty years to be the old age of 
youth, you were solaced by the thought that it was the 
youth of old age, and still later you will wonder where 
youth ends and old age begins. 

In many assemblages you once found yourself the 
youngest man, or among the youngest. But with swift- 
flying years, you finally found yourself equal in age to 
most of those in all assemblies ; but the time comes when 
only younger men are crowding around you. And when 
you try to evade the thought that you are growing old, 
along comes some kindly friend with the greeting, "How 
young you are looking." 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 285 

You grow to regard as babes, wild, young blades of 
forty or fifty. You may comfort yourself with the 
thought expressed by Holmes. He says that he could 
feel fairly immune from death as long as older men whom 
he knew, still remained, especially if they were of a much 
greater age than himself. They were farther out on the 
skirmish line, and must be taken first. 



MY ALLEGIANCE. 

By CORA KELLEY WHEELER, Marshfield, Wisconsin. 
Copyrig-ht, 1896, The Editor PutaHshing Company. 

FROM "MY LADY ELEANOR," pp. 119-20. 

I was wounded at Acre. My strong right arm will 
never strike another blow for the glory of the Cross. I 
started sadly out, in spite of our victory, for my western 
home. 

I thought to look in Eleanor's face once more, and see 
if the years had brought any tender thoughts of me into 
her heart. If not, I should never trouble her with any 
claim of mine. I knew she passed her time in works of 
charity, and that the house of Savoy had never held the 
love and reverence of the people before as it held it today, 
under the rule of my Lady Eleanor. 

We reached Savoy. In the old days I carried to the 
lady of my heart a reprieve from death; but to me she 
brought now a reprieve that took all the grief and sorrow 
out of my life, as she laid her sweet face on my breast and 
whispered, ''I have loved you ever since the night you 
brought me home; why did you ever leave me?" "With 
the love of the Duchess of Savoy began a new life; but 
to me she will ever be, as when I loved her first, ''My 
Lady Eleanor. ' ' 



OTHER WISCONSIN WRITERS AND 
THEIR WORKS. 

ALBERTINB W. MOORE, Echoes from Mistland, Norway 
Music Album. 

MARION V. DUDLEY, Poems. 

ELLA A. GILES, Maiden Rachael, Out from the Shadows, 
Bachelor Ben, Flowers of the Spirit. 

JAMES GATES PBRCIVAL, Percival's Poems. 

CHARLES NOBLE GREGORY, Poems. 

JULIA AND MEDORA CLARK, Driftwood. 

CHARLOTTA PERRY, (pseud.) Carlotta Perry's Poems, 
1888. 

JOHN GOADBY GREGORY, A Beauty of Thebes and Other 
Verses. 

FLORENCE C. REID, Jack's Afire, Survival of the Fittest. 

KENT KENNAN, Sketches. 

MYRON E. BAKER, Vacation Thoughts. 

JOSEPH V. COLLINS, of Stevens Point, Sketches. 

MYRA EMMONS, of Stevens Point, Short Stories. 

JULIA M. TASCHER, of Stevens Point, Arbutus and Dan- 
delions, a Novel. 

ADA F. MOORE, (Mrs. John Phillips, of Stevens Point,) 
Under the Pines. 

MRS. E. M. TASCHER, (Mother of Julia M. Tascher), The 
Story of Stevens Point. 

JOHN HICKS, of Oshkosh, lately Minister Plenipotentiary 
of the United States to Peru, The Man from Oshkosh. 

JULIUS TAYLOR CLARK, formerly of Madison, The Ojibue 
Conquest. 

GEORGE GRIMM, of Milwaukee, Pluck, a Story of a Little 
Immigrant Boy. 

GENESSEE RICHARDSON, of Oconomowoc, My Castle in 
the Air. 

CHESTER L. SAXBY, of Superior, A Captain of the King. 

MISS L. J. DICKINSON, of Superior, John O'Dreams. 

GEORGE STEELE, of Whitewater, Deidre. 

JULIUS C. BIRGE, (the first white child born in White- 
water,) The Awakening of the Desert. 

JOSEPH P. DYSART, Milwaukee, Grace Porter, a Jewel 
Lost and Pound. 

MARGARET ASHMUN, Poems and Short Stories. 



WISCONSIN HUMORISTS 

Among the many purposes authors have for producing lit- 
erature is that of pure fun or humor. If the writer attempts 
to reform by laughing at his people, we designate his work as 
satire. With this type of literature we have nothing to do here, 
but much literature has been produced within the state that 
has for its purpose the laughing with the readers. It attempts 
to amuse through affording a pleasing surprise. The unex- 
pected which engenders this surprise may be that of situation, 
of ignorance, or of the mingling of sense and nonsense in a 
perplexing manner. 

This last means of engendering surprise and the resulting 
humor grew up quite largely among writers of the Middle 
West during and since the Civil War. It is often spoken of as 
American humor. It may be illustrated by a short selection 
from Edgar Wilson Nye's Comic History of the United States, 
which will show the point of mingling real historical facts 
with statements quite ridiculous in many instances. Let the 
reader attempt to determine which statements are historical 
sense and which are smart or even pure nonsense. 

"On December 16, 1773, occurred the tea-party at Boston, 
which must have been a good deal livelier than those of today. 
The historian regrets that he was not there; he would have 
tried to be the life of the party. 

"England had finally so arranged the price of tea that, in- 
eluding the tax, it was cheaper in America than in the old 
country. This exasperated the patriots, who claimed that they 
were confronted by a theory and not a condition. At Charles- 
ton this tea was stored in damp cellars, where it spoiled. New 
York and Philadelphia returned their ship, but the British 
would not allow any shenanagin, as George III. so tersely 
termed it, in Boston. 

"Therefore a large party met in Faneuil Hall and decided 
that the tea should not be landed. A party made up as Indians 
and, going on board, threw the tea overboard. Boston Harbor, 
as far out as the Bug Light, even today, is said to be carpeted 
with tea-grounds." 

Wisconsin writers have attempted this type of humor. Two 
of these whose lives have been more or less connected with 
the history of River Falls, are mentioned here. The first of 
these labored quite as earnestly to cultivate the serious side of 
literature as he did the humorous. As a result his little volume 
entitled "Lute Taylor's Chip Basket," is filled with even more 
of the quite serious of life's lessons expressed in poems and 
essays than of the ludicrous. He mingled both in his book as 



288 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

a real manifestation of his philosophy of life. This is the way 
he puts it: "Fun is cousin to Common Sense. They live pleas- 
antly together, and none but fools try to divorce them." 

Lute A. Taylor was born at Norfolk, New York, September 
14, 1863. He came to River Falls, Wisconsin, in 1856, where 
he became editor of the River Falls Journal in June, 1857. 
He removed his paper to Prescott in 1861 and called it the 
Prescott Journal. In 1869 he became one of the publishers 
and editor-in-chief of the La Crosse Morning Leader. In addi- 
tion to his newspaper work he held the appointive offices of 
assistant assessor of internal revenues, assessor of the sixth 
congressional district of Wisconsin, and surveyor of the port 
of entry at La Crosse. He died at the latter place November 
11, 1875. 

When Lute was eight years old his father died, and the 
boy was thrown upon his own resources quite largely from this 
early age. The resulting struggle limited his opportunities for 
school and academy somewhat, but it revealed to him the 
blessings of persistent effort and gave him a sympathy for the 
sufferings of mankind. His genial disposition and keen wit 
made him see the joyous in life, so that between trial and joy 
he may be said to have been a veritable "vibration between a 
smile and a tear." 

Since so much of his effort in a literary way was serious, 
it is thought best to illustrate this as well as his humor. Two 
selections are chosen, both from the Chip Basket, which in its 
turn is a selection from his newspaper articles. He had not 
only the ability to write the extended article, but also the much 
more rare ability of boiling down into concentrated compari- 
sons some of his richest observations. Out of twenty such 
quotations just these two are given as illustrations: 

"There is a thread in our thought as there is a pulse in our 
heart; he who can hold the one knows how to think; and he 
who can move the other, knows how to feel." 

"A man may be successful as a loafer, and invest less capi- 
tal and brains than are required to succeed in any other line." 

To illustrate a bit of his humor due to the mingling of non- 
sense and facts a few paragraphs from a letter to the St. Paul 
Pioneer concerning the city of Chicago are given. 

LUTE A. TAYLOR. 

CHICAGO 

I like Chicago. Chicago is a large city. I have no- 
ticed there are always many people in a large city. A city 
doesn't do well without them. Some of your readers may 
not have been to Chicago. Shall I tell them about it? 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 289 

There are many groceries here, where they sell tea, 
cod-fish, whiskey, flour, molasses, saleratus and such 
things, and other groceries where they sell cloth, women's 
clothes, and fancy 'fixin's' generally. Field, Leiter and 
Co. have one of the latter. It is in cube form — a block 
long, a block high, and a block thick. It is bigger than 
a barn, and tall as a light-house. There are more than 
forty clerks in it. 

There are lots of ships here, and horse-cars, but the 
horses don't ride in them, though, and the water-works. 
I must tell you about the water-works. They are a big 
thing. Much water is used in Chicago. Fastidious people 
sometimes wash in it. Chicago has first-class water now, 
and plenty of it. She has built a tunnel two miles long, 
and tapped Lake Michigan that distance from the shore. 
The water runs down to the home station, and is then 
lifted up high by steam engines and distributed over the 
city. The hoisting of it is a good deal like work. I like 
to see these engines work. Any body would. Clean, pol- 
ished, shining monsters, they seem to take a conscious 
pride in their performance, and the tireless movement of 
their mighty arms seems almost as resistless as the Avill 
of Ood. But they cost scrips, these piles of polished ma- 
chinery and throbbing life do ; and with that regard for 
economy which has always characterized me, I think I 
have discovered a plan by which this work can be done 
at nearly nominal expense. I only wonder that Chicago, 
with her accredited 'git' and 'gumption,' has not accepted 
my plan before. My plan is this: At the shore end of 
the tunnel build a large tank or reservoir, put two first- 
class whales in it, and let them spout the water up. Sim- 
ple, isn't it? And feasible too, and cheap. You see the 
whales would furnish their o^vn clothes and lodging, and 



290 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

all the oil they would need for lighting to work nights by^ 
and the city would really be out nothing but their board. 
Whales have always been in the water elevating business, 
so this would be right in their line. They would work 
and think it was fun — just as a boy sometimes, but not 
most always, does — and there is no good reason why their 
sporting instinct should not be turned to practical. 

I am confident of the final success of my plan, but 
the prejudices of people against innovations may retard 
its operation for some time yet. 

Speaking of water makes me think that Chicago, like 
St. Paul, has a river, only not so much so. Rivers most 
always run by large cities, they seem to like to, some 
way. But this is a brigandish sort of river, black, foul, 
and murky, and in the dark night it steals sullenly through 
the city like a prowling fiend. 

Two paragraphs will serve to Illustrate Lute Taylor's 
ability to meditate upon the common-place and draw there- 
from the wholesome lesson. We are choosing his comments 
upon a "nickname," where he says: 

The man who has won a nickname and wears it 
gracefully, has the elements of popularity about him. The 
same instinct which leads a mother to apply diminutive 
phrases of endearment to her little ones is a universal 
instinct, one which we never outgrow, and which con- 
tinually manifests itself in our form of addressing or 
speaking of those we love, trust or admire. 

The man who is known in his neighborhood as 
''Uncle" is never a cold, crabbed or selfish character. He 
is sure to have a generous heart, and wear a cheerful 
smile — there is integrity in him which men trust, and 
warmth around him which little children love to gather, 
and the term is a title of honor — more to be desired than 
that of honorable. 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 291 

"BILL" NYE. 

Edgar Wilson Nye, known to his readers as "Bill Nye," 
was born in Shirley, Maine, August 2 5, 185 0. He removed 
with his parents to Wisconsin in 1854. As a mere school boy, 
he loved to say those things which afforded amusement to his 
associates and his family. In an article in Collier's for April 
10, 1915, his mother tells the following anecdote concerning 
him when a boy working on the Wisconsin farm: 

The two boys, Edgar (Bill) and his brother Frank had 
been working in the field, but were separated on their return 
to the house at noon time. They met again at the pump, when 
the following conversation ensued: 

"Edgar looked at Frank as if surprised, and inquired: 
'Your name Nye?' 

'Yes,' replied Frank, with perfect gravity in order to lead 
his brother on. 

'That's funny; my name's Nye, too,' observed Edgar. 'Where 
were you born?' 

'In Maine,' answered Frank. 

'I was born in Maine myself,' said Edgar. 'I wouldn't 
doubt at all if we were some relation. Got any brothers?' 

'Yes, I have two brothers.' 

'Well, well, this is growing interesting. I've got two 
brothers myself. I'll bet if the thing were all traced out, there 
would be some family relationship found. Are your brothers 
older or younger than you?' 

'I have one brother older and one younger,' replied Frank. 

'Oh, well, then we can't be any relation after all,' declared 
Edgar with a look of disappointment; 'my brothers are both 
older.' " 

While a young man he went to the then territory of Wyom- 
ing, where he studied law and was admitted to the bar in 18 76. 
He later returned to River Falls, Wisconsin, where he engaged 
in newspaper work. Some years later he traveled with James 
Whitcomb Riley and gave entertainments in which mirth was. 
the essential feature. He later removed from Wisconsin and 
made his home in New York City. He died at Asheville, N. C, 
Feb. 22, 189G. 

His writings appeared under the following titles: 

Bill Nye and Boomerang, in 1881; Forty Liars, in 18 83; 
Remarks, in 18 86; Baled Hay and Fun, Wit and Humor, with 
J. W. Riley, in 1889; Comic History of the United States, in 
1894; Comic History of England, in 1896. 

To illustrate his humor due to the ming-ling- of fact and non- 
sense, we reproduce here a portion of his chapter upon Franklin 
as published in his Comic History of the United States. 



Reprinted through permission of J. B. Lippincott Co. 



292 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

BENJAMIN FRANIOLIN 

It is considered advisable by the historian at this time 
to say a word regarding Dr. Franklin, our fellow-towns- 
man, and a journalist who was the Charles A. Dana of 
his time. Franklin's memory will remain green when the 
names of millionaires of to-day are forgotten. 

But let us proceed to more fully work out the life 
and labors of this remarkable man, 

Benjamin Franklin, formerly of Boston, came very 
near being an only child. If seventeen children had not 
come to bless the home of Benjamin's parents, they would 
have been childless. Think of getting up in the morning 
and picking out your shoes and stockings from among 
seventeen pairs of them ! 

And yet Benjamin Franklin never murmured or re- 
pined. He decided to go to sea, and to avoid 1?his he was 
apprenticed to his brother James, who was a printer. 

His paper M^as called the New England Courant. It 
was edited jointly by James and Benjamin Franklin, and 
was started to supply a long-felt want. 

Benjamin edited it a part of the time, and James a part 
of the time. The idea of having two editors was not 
for the purpose of giving volume to the editorial page, but 
it was necessary for one to run the paper while the other 
was in jail. 

In those days you could not sass the king, and then, 
when the king came in the office the next day and stopped 
his paper and took out his ad, put it off on 'our informant' 
and go right along with the paper. You had to go to 
jail, while your subscribers wondered why their paper did 
not come, and the paste soured in the tin dippers in the 
sanctum, and the circus passed by on the other side. 

How many of us today, fellow- journalists, would be 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 293 

willing to stay in jail while the lawn festival and the 
kangaroo came and went? Who of all our company would 
go to a prison-cell for the caase of freedom while a 
double-column ad of sixteen aggregated circuses, and 
eleven congresses of ferocious beasts, fierce and fragrant 
from their native lair, went by us? 

At the age of seventeen Ben got disgusted with his 
brother, and went to Philadelphia and New York, where 
he got a chance to 'sub' for a few weeks and then got 
a regular job. 

Franklin was a good printer and finally got to be a 
foreman. He made an excellent foreman. He knew just 
how to conduct himself as a foreman so that strangers 
would think he owned the paper. 

In 1730, at the age of twenty-four, Franklin married, 
and established the Pennsylvania Gazette. He was then 
regarded as a great man, and almost every one took his 
paper. 

Franklin grew to be a great journalist, and spelled 
hard words with great fluency. He never tried to be a 
humorist in any of his newspaper work, and everybody 
respected him. 

Along about 1746 he began to study the habits and 
construction of lightning, and inserted a local in his paper 
in which he said that he would be obliged to any of his 
readers who might notice any new odd specimens of 
lightning, if they would send them to the G-azette office 
for examination. 

Every time there was a thunderstorm Frank would 
tell the foreman to edit the paper, and, armed with a 
string and an old doorkey, he Avould go out on the hills 
and get enough lightning for a mess. 

In 1753 Franklin was made postmaster of the colonies. 



294 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

He made a good Postmaster-General, and people say there 
were fewer mistakes in distributing their mail then than 
there have ever been since. If a man mailed a letter in 
those days, Ben Franklin saw that it went to where it was 
addressed. 

Franklin frequently went over to England in those 
days, partly on business and partly to shock the king. He 
liked to go to the castle with his breeches tucked in his 
boots, figuratively speaking, and attract a great deal of 
attention. Franklin never put on any frills, but he was 
not afraid of crowned heads. 

He did his best to prevent the Revolutionary War, but 
he couldn't do it. Patrick Henry had said that war was 
inevitable, and had given it permission to come, and it 
came. 

He also went to Paris, and got acquainted with a few 
crowned heads there. They thought a good deal of him 
in Paris, and offered him a corner lot if he would build 
there and start a paper. They also offered him the county 
printing; but he said, no, he would have to go back to 
America or his wife might get uneasy about him. Frank- 
lin wrote 'Poor Richard's Almanac' in 1732 to 1757j and 
it was republished in England. 

Dr. Franklin entered Philadelphia eating a loaf of 
hread and carrying a loaf under each arm, passing be- 
neath the window of the girl whom he afterward gave his 
hand in marriage. 

GEORGE W. PECK 

One section of this book might be devoted wholly to the 
work of newspaper men in furthering the progress of litera- 
ture in the state. Several names would deserve mention in 
such connection, — among them E. D. Coe, of Whitewater; 
Colonel Robert M. Crawford, of Mineral Point; John Nagle, of 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 295 

Manitowoc; Major Atkinson, of Eau Claire; Horace Rublee and 

A. M. Thomson, of the Milwaukee Sentinel; Bruce Pomeroy, 
of La Crosse; Amos P. Wilder, of the State Journal, Madison; 

B. P. Petherick, of Milwaukee; Colonel A. J. Watrous, of Mil- 
waukee, and two former Governors of Wisconsin, — W. D. 
Hoard, of Fort Atkinson, and George W. Peck, of Milwaukee, 
besides Mr. Nye and Mr. Taylor, mentioned above. 

Mr. Peck was born in New York in 1840, but he has lived 
in Wisconsin since 1843. He has been connected with news- 
papers at Whitewater, Jefferson, La Crosse, and Milwaukee. 
He founded the "Sun" at La Crosse in 1874, and later removed 
it to Milwaukee, where he called it "Peck's Sun." At one time 
he was unquestionably the best-known writer in Wisconsin, 
and the best-known Wisconsin writer throughout the country, 
which fame came to him through his "Peck's Bad Boy" 
sketches. He was also the author of "Peck's Compendium of 
Fun," "Peck's Sunshine," together with almost countless 
sketches which usually were in some way connected with the 
mischief-loving, mirth-provoking "Bad Boy." Neighbors of the 
Pecks in Whitewater tend, by their recollection of the former 
Governor, to confirm the suspicion that not all of "Peck's Bad 
Boy" was fiction, and that the author himself may have played 
a not inconsiderable part in the scenes therein depicted. 

Mr. Peck's fellow-citizens in Milwaukee honored him with 
the mayoralty, and the citizens of the state made him Gover- 
nor from 1891 to 1895. He is now, January, 1916, a familiar 
figure to Milwaukee citizens. He has a keen memory for his 
old friends, and citizens, both young and old, who can remind 
him of some of his old neighbors in Whitewater or Jefferson 
are always sure of a pleasant chat with him. 



TROUBLE ABOUT READING A NEWSPAPER 

From "PECK'S BOSS BOOK," p. 42. Copyright, 19 00, by W. B. 
Conkey Co. 

A man came into the ''Sun" office on Tuesday with 
a black eye, a strip of court plaster across his cheek, one 
arm in a sling, and as he leaned on a crutch and wiped the 
perspiration away from around a lump on his forehead, 
with a red cotton handkerchief, he asked if the editor 
was in. We noticed that there was quite a healthy smell 
of stock-yards about the visitor, but thinking that in his 
crippled condition we could probably whip him, if worst 
came to worst, we admitted that we were in. 



296 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

''Well, I want to stop my paper," said he, as lie sat 
down on one edge of a chair, as though it might hurt. 
''Scratch my name right off. You are responsible for my 
condition." 

Thinking the man might have been taking our advice 
to deaf men, to always walk on a railroad track if they 
could find one, we were preparing to scratch him off 
without any argument, believing that he was a man who 
knew when he had enough, when he spoke up as follows : 

"The amount of it is this. I live out in Jefferson 
county, and I come in on the new Northwestern road, 
just to get recreation. I am a farmer, and keep cows. I 
recently read an article in your paper about a dairymen's 
convention, where one of the mottoes over the door was, 
'Treat your cow as you would a lady,' and the article 
said it was contended by our best dairymen that a cow, 
treated in a polite, gentlemanly manner, as though she 
was a companion, would give twice as much milk. The 
plan seemed feasible to me. I had been a hard man with 
stock, and thought maybe that was one reason my cows 
always dried up when butter was forty cents a pound, 
and gave plenty of milk when butter was only worth 
fifteen cents a pound. I decided to adopt your plan, and 
treat a cow as I would a lady. I had a brindle cow that 
never had been very much mashed on me, and I decided 
to commence on her, and the next morning after I read 
your devilish paper, I put on my Sunday suit and a white 
plug hat that I bought the year Greeley ran for President, 
and went to the barn to milk. I noticed the old cow 
seemed to be bashful and frightened, but taking off my 
hat and bowing politely, I said, 'Madame, excuse the 
seeming impropriety of the request, but will you do me 
the favor to hoist?' At the same time I tapped her 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 297 

gently on the flank with my plug hat, and putting the tin 
pail on the floor under her, I sat down on the milking 
stool." 

"Did she hoist?" said we, rather anxious to know how 
the advice of President Smith, of Sheboygan, the great 
dairyman, had worked. 

''Did she hoist? Well, look at me, and see if you 
think she hoisted. Say, I tell you now in confidence, and 
I don't Avant it repeated, but that cow raised right up 
and kicked me with all four feet, switched me with her 
tail, and hooked me with both horns, all at once; and 
when I got up out of the bedding in the stall, and dug my 
hat out of the manger, and the milking-stool out from 
under me, and began to maul that cow, I forgot all about 
the proper treatment of horned cattle. Why, she fairly 
galloped over me, and I never want to read your old 
paper again." 

We tried to explain to him that the advice did not 
apply to brindle cows at all, but he hobbled out, the mad- 
dest man that ever asked a cow to hoist in diplomatic 
language. 



WILLIAM F. KIRK 

William F. Kirk is no longer a resident o^' Milwaukee, lie 
having been called to a larger sphere of work on New York 
papers. But for a period of some eight or ten years he en- 
Nightingale" sketches, of which one is here given. 
deared himself to the readers of the Milwaukee Sentinel by 
his daily column. In it he had many quips which reminded 
one of Eugene Field in his "Sharps and Flats." But perhaps 
the most popular type of his work appeared in his "Norsk 



WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 
A PSAIiM OF lilFE 

FroA the "NORSK NIGHTINGALE, BEING THE LYRICS OF A 
/T.UMBER TACK'," by William P. Kirk. Copyright, 1905, by 
'Small, Maynard & Co. (Inc.). 






Tal me not, yu knocking fallers, 

Life ban only empty dream; 
Dar ban planty fun, ay tal yu, 

Ef yu try Yohn Yohnson's scheme. 
Yohn ban yust a section foreman, 

Vorking hard vay up on Soo; 
He ban yust so glad in morning 

As ven all his vork ban tru. 

"Vork," says Yohn, "ban vat yu mak it. 

Ef yu tenk das vork ban hard, 
Yu skol having planty headaches, — 

Yes, yu bet yure life, old pard; 
But ay alvays yerk my coat off, 

Grab my shovel and my pick, 
And dis yob ant seem lak hard von 

Ef ay du it purty qvick." 

Yohn ban foreman over fallers. 

He ant have to vork, yu see; 
But, yu bet, he ant no loafer, 

And he yust digs in, by yee! 
"Listen, Olaf," he skol tal me, 

"Making living ant no trick. 
And the hardest yob ban easy 

Ef you only du it qvick!" 

Let us den be op and yumping, 

Always glad to plow tru drift; 
Ven our vork ban done, den let us 

Give some oder faller lift. 
Den, ay bet yu, old Saint Peter, 

He skol tenk ve're purty slick; 
Ve can go tru gates, ay bet yu, 

Ef ve only du it qvick! 



INDEX OF AUTHORS AND GROUPS. 

Adams, Mary M 275 

Anderson, Rasmus B 228 

Baer, Libbie C 273 

Baker, Ray Stannard 85-99 

Birge, E. A 224 

Blaisdell, J. A 279 

Bond, Leda 271 

Brayley, Berton 265 

Brown, Neal 284 

Brown, S. W 283 

Carlton, Carrie 276 

Centers of Literary Activity 172, 184, 219 

Chamberlain, Mrs 276 

Chase, Wilfred B 281 

Coe, E. D •. 270 

Comstock, George C 242 

Davidson, J. N 2 81 

Thomas, Herbert Dickinson 260 

Ferber, Edna 163 

Flower, Elliott 202 

Gale, Zona 114 

Garland, Hamlin 13 

Grayson, David 9 9 

Griswold, Hattie T 189 

Henderson, J. R 274 

Hoard, W. D 29 5 

Humorists 287 

Jones, Howard M 265 

Jones, Jenkin Lloyd 209 

King, General Charles 40 

Kirk, William P 297 

Lathrop, Harry 278 

Leonard, William E 254 

Manville, Marion 279 



300 WISCONSIN IN STORY AND SONG 

Merrick, George B 184 

McNeil, Everett 213 

Moore, Ada F 277 

Muir, John 64 

Nagle, Jolm 280 

Neidig, William J 2 63 

Newspaper Men 294 

Nye, Edgar W. (Bill) 291 

Peck, George W 294 

Plantz, Myra G 2 75 

Pyre, J. F. A 245 

Reinsch, Paul S 238 

Rexford, Eben E 128 

Ross, Edward A 246 

Salisbury, Albert and RoUin 172 

Sanford, Albert H 193 

Schurz, Carl 146 

Sheriff, C. F 270 

Showerman, Grant 251 

Stevens Point as a Center 184 

Stewart, Charles D 196 

Taylor, Lute 288 

Teeple, George L 172 

Thompson, A. M' 271 

Thwaites, Reuben Gold. . .' 230 

Turner, Frederick J 234 

University as a Center, The . 184, 219 

University Group, The 219 

Van Hise, Charles R 220 

Webster, Joseph P 269 

Wheeler, Cora K 285 

Whitewater as a Center 172, 295 

Whitney, J. H 272 

Wilcox, Ella Wheeler 72 

Willsie, Honors 150 

Winslow, Horatio 265 

Writers of Local Distinction 270 

Writers not represented 286 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




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